


The Circles: Book 4: Paths Both East and West

by AngmarAndElfhild



Series: The Circles of Power [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU (alternate universe), Drama, F/F, F/M, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 135,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngmarAndElfhild/pseuds/AngmarAndElfhild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.</p><p>Meanwhile, twins Elfhild and Elffled and the three sons of Goldwyn - Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha - journey through Anórien, though the courses which they take vary greatly. Danger lies everywhere, but what about friends unlooked-for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Perceptions

JOURNAL OF THE PHYSICIAN TUSHRATTA OF KHAND  
 _Dawn of 24 Simanu, the thirtieth year of the Reign of King Shapsusharr of Khand_  
June 20, 3019, according to the Western reckoning

Observations on the Patient, Goldwyn, widow of Fasthelm of Grenefeld in the Eastfold of Rohan, who perished in the war

"I have only a few hurried moments to record my thoughts this morning, for the caravan is scheduled to depart very soon from this lovely camping place by the Anduin. All my medical paraphernalia, instruments and supplies, personal effects, clothing and books have been packed and loaded in the baggage wagon, as have Aziru's possessions. For the ease of my lovely patient, I have had my own wain outfitted with a number of comfortable cushions and pillows, along with quilts and blankets and sleeping mats. Both the servant girl and Aziru will ride in the wain with the lady so that they may be readily on call should she need them. I also thought it prudent to order two men to ride as escort for my wain. Though there is little danger in crossing the floating bridge, still the driver might require assistance if the horses should prove balky. To the best of my ability, I have seen to my patient's creature comfort; unfortunately, I have been able to do little to attend to the solace and healing of her mind and soul.

"Early yesterday evening, the lady's mind had seemed considerably clearer, and her general condition greatly improved. Yet as the evening progressed, she gradually grew more and more melancholy until at last she lapsed into uncontrollable sobbing. For a while, she proved obstinate and refused to lie down, but finally Sang-mí - who is acting as her maid - and I persuaded her to rest. After dismissing the slave girl, I convinced Goldwyn to share a goblet of wine with me. Though she was not aware of it, I had added a measure of opiates into the draught, but only a mild dose, merely as an aid in helping her sleep. I might note that too strong a dosage over too long a period of time can cause addiction. However, a small amount during the treatment can be beneficial in calming patients' minds.

"I sat by her bed, and, quite out of the ordinary for her, she seemed willing to converse with me. I think it proper here to remark on my observations on her general condition at this point. By this time, her mood seemed to have settled after her crying fit. She appeared to be improving in health and there was even a light pinkish flush to her complexion which gave me reason to hope that her vitality was returning. Her breathing was quite normal, although I noticed a slight elevation in its rate. I did not think this was of any particular significance, perhaps reflecting only a degree of shyness on the part of the patient. When we are in private, she sometimes exhibits a certain delightful quality of childlike playfulness, which I find quite charming. When I teasingly reminded her that there was a drop of red wine clinging to her lower lip, she demurely licked it away with the tip of her pink tongue, her large blue eyes quite adorable.

"Smiling at me, she drifted off into slumber, and I felt confident that nothing would disturb her rest that night. When I was certain that she was asleep, I quietly made my way to my own sleeping mat. All was quiet, and the tent was dark, save for one lamp which was left burning. How I enjoy the quietude of the night with no sound save the gentle, rhythmic breathing of the tent's occupants and the occasional reassuring announcement of a passing guard that 'all was well.' It is during these times that I often meditate, pondering what I, as a physician, can do to alleviate the sufferings of my patients.

"Though I had some difficulty falling asleep because of my overstimulated mental processes, my body was at last able to relax, and I drifted off into restful slumber. I slept the sleep of exhaustion until my rest was disturbed by a long, piercing shriek. At that horrifying sound, all the occupants of the tent were instantly awake. Sang-mí was terrified and confused, and not knowing what to make of any of it, gathered her wailing son protectively into her arms. She was close to bolting from the tent when I halted her. Aziru, who had been dozing fitfully, sprang to his feet, looked about for a weapon, and swore that the slaves had mutinied once again.

"Too alarmed even to dress, I rushed to the patient's bedside, where I discovered that she had thrown off the light sheet and quilt which had been covering her and torn away her gown. That in itself was not surprising, for even those of the soundest of minds might do such a thing unknowingly in their sleep. She seemed totally oblivious to our presence, however. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted as though she were in the heat of passion, and across her breasts and stomach was the flush of desire. She lay there totally nude, writhing and twisting upon the couch and groping her intimate regions.

"Shaking her gently by the shoulders, I attempted to awaken her. I had some hesitations, though, for I knew that when she came to her senses, she would be highly embarrassed by her behavior. Such feelings of guilt are generally disruptive to those patients whose mental condition is already unsteady and can drive them deeper into madness. As I bent to pull the covers over the lady, she sat bolt upright and, clasping her breasts, she held them out as though offering them to me. Though I admit that she was a sore temptation, I restrained my passions and attempted to calm her. Moaning some unintelligible words in her own language, she raked her fingernails across my bare chest, leaving a trail of oozing scratches in their wake. With the strength I could not believe possible in a woman, she clutched me around the shoulders, and, throwing me off balance, pulled me to the bed with her.

"Before I could stop her, she had wrapped her legs about my hips, pressing her pudenda against me. In her madness, she slid her hand into my loincloth and grasped my manhood. Her body glistened with a sheen of perspiration, and I could not mistake the scent of musk mingling with the perfumed oils. She babbled incoherently, her speech disjointed and filled with growls, guttural sounds, and moans.

"Aziru, usually all bluster and bravado, was momentarily stunned into inaction and stood in the middle of the floor, his eyes staring and his mouth hanging open. He was just as bewildered as I was at the patient's unnatural strength and her unexpected decline into sensual depravity. Being so familiar with her customary modesty and propriety, both of us found it difficult to believe that anything short of total dementia could drive her into such a carnal frenzy.

"Though she struggled, clawing and scratching as would some wild beast, together Aziru and I were able to subdue her without harming her. After we had tied her wrists and ankles together, all the fight left her, and she sank back into the bed, trembling and exhausted, her eyes glazed. I prescribed another dose of opiates, enough to hold her for some hours. Then I ordered both Aziru and Sang-mí back to their mats, whilst I stayed by the patient's bedside the rest of the night, sleeping little, my eyes seldom leaving her sleeping form, alert and dreading any new developments. There was nothing to fear upon that score, though, for the drugs had their effect, and she slept peacefully the rest of the night.

"I have almost concluded that when she is in her delirium, she mistakes me for her dead husband, Fasthelm. She must be made to realize that he is gone forever. Here I must go slowly in my treatment and not stress her, for I do not know how many more shocks her debilitated emotional state can tolerate. The sooner I can persuade her of his death, the sooner she can progress towards recovery. I believe that much of her difficulties have arisen because she is in severe denial.

"One of my concerns is that she could possibly develop an obsession for me. Equally as bad, I have read in my medical books from Bablon that sometimes even the most conservative of physicians can develop an unnatural preoccupation for their female patients. This is why many men will never allow physicians to examine their women unless these ladies are veiled, swathed in sheets, and attended by a household eunuch. Even at that, the more zealous men refuse to let the physician touch the woman when he examines her. The physician is restricted to tying a string around her wrist, using that to determine not only her pulse but everything that ails her. Aziru and I both must exercise the highest of professional ethics and keep our minds trained only upon the business of healing.

"I had hoped that by the time the Shakh rejoins the train that the woman would be well enough to turn over to his keeping. In light of the past events, however, the firm conviction has taken root in my mind that it would be in the lady's best interests to remain in my care. At present, I am uncertain how long this might be necessary, but at least it must be until I can determine a diagnosis and formulate some treatment.

"Though I would have wished to consult the scrolls concerning aberrations of the mind, there is no time this morning. Once again, I am left with the unpleasant realization that I do not possess the knowledge to understand the strange malady which vexes her. Though I hold little belief in the power of the supernatural, I cannot help but think that I must look beyond the physical to find the answers in this case. I am manifestly aware of my inadequacy in this area, and curse my shortsightedness for not having the willingness to investigate the path of the shaman, the ashipu!"

***

Putting his down reed pen and blotting the parchment, Tushratta packed his writing instruments in their tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl inlaid writing case of lacquered rosewood and gave it over to Hibiz. Then, unwilling to entrust the lady's safety to any but himself, he tenderly picked her up in his arms and carried her to the waiting wain.

"Fasthelm..." Her blue eyes fluttering open, Goldwyn reached up to encircle his neck with her arms.

How beautiful she looked that morning! He drew his breath in sharply, her loveliness making his heart beat faster. He would miss her this day whilst he was away leading the caravan. But there was always the night... "No," he reprimanded himself, "do not ever allow yourself to have such thoughts!" Still he could not forget the memory of her last night - her blue eyes gleaming with wantonness, her full breasts with their pink nipples, her body pressed close to him as she convulsed in wild paroxysms of insane lust. Such fantasies were unethical, though, for the poor woman would never act in such a provocative manner if she were in her right mind.

"How pleasant is the dawning of the sun upon the fair face of beauty! However, I am not your husband Fasthelm, my lady, and you must never call me by his name," Tushratta replied quietly as they reached the wain.

"No, I suppose you are not," she murmured, her eyes reflecting uncertainty.

"Tushratta and my lady, so good to see you this morning!" Standing in the doorway of the wain, a bowing Aziru beckoned them to come inside. The sight of the exuberant little man brought a much-needed sense of normalcy to the situation. "My lady, you look much better!" Aziru exclaimed as he moved aside for Tushratta to carry the lady inside the wain. Once again she had slipped into her icy shell and only stared at the little man.

Sang-mí, her babe in her arms, smiled gently at Goldwyn before lowering her eyes and bowing her head in the perpetual gesture of servitude. The physician eased Goldwyn onto one of the cushioned benches. Aziru kept up a constant stream of chatter, but Tushratta, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful woman, gave only perfunctory replies to his remarks.

"Master Physician... and my lady," Aziru turned his head towards her, "all is in readiness for the journey." He darted his eyes back and forth from his listeners to the interior of the wain.

Along three sides of the spacious wain there ran a bench, its upholstery of sturdy wool woven into a geometric pattern of brown and green. While the texture and pattern were plain, the cushions were deep and inviting. There were four windows along the walls of the wain - a small one behind the driver's seat; one on each side of the wagon; and one in the door. In bad weather, the open apertures of the wain could be shuttered, and a small brazier placed in the center aisle. The wain could be made even more snug by drawing the heavy dark drapes over the windows.

"No matter where you might travel, whether you went to the cold, frigid lands of the North or the sultry deserts of the South, you will never find a wain constructed of any better workmanship than this one!" Aziru boasted. "Just test the springs if you will!" Bouncing up and down like some absurd clown at a country fair, he grinned like a simpleton. In spite of his antics, not even the slightest smile graced Goldwyn's lips.

Her apathetic silence did not deter his good humor in the least, and he bounced even harder, causing the wain to shake and rattle. "Ah, my good lady, is there no pleasing you?" He gave another upward thrust of his body and rose even higher. "I do not boast idly about this wain! The Gondorians, in their generosity, provided it to us. It was first a military ambulance, but it has converted quite well."

Nib was no more impressed than Goldwyn. He looked at Aziru reproachfully; then squeezed his eyes tightly together and let out a lusty wail. Smiling apologetically, Sang-mí dandled the child up and down on her lap, which only caused him to wail louder. Her pleading eyes met Aziru, who, with a final bounce and a laugh, stopped jumping and wiped the sweat from his ruddy brow.

Goldwyn's harsh expression softened slowly, the deep lines leaving her forehead. A gentle smile infused her features as she reached out her arms to Sang-mí. "Give him to me," she softly urged. "I can quiet him."

Her fingers undulating like reeds in a gentle breeze, the golden lady beckoned to the Haradric girl. The icy blue eyes held the slave girl transfixed, unable to turn away. Icy shivers danced down Sang-mí's spine as she sensed a fell presence hovering about Goldwyn. "How foolish of me," Sang-mí rationalized. "This woman surely holds no peril!" As much as she tried to reassure herself that these apprehensions were only a product of her imagination, her intuition told her otherwise. The woman's very foreignness was alarming in itself!

"Sang-mí, sweet girl, whatever is wrong?" Tushratta's calm voice broke the spell.

A look of alarm on her face, Sang-mí's frightened eyes quickly went to Tushratta's. Though Goldwyn appeared to be possessed of her senses, Sang-mí was convinced that she caught a feral gleam deep within the woman's eyes. All her instincts warned her, "No! No!" However, she was only a slave and must do whatever a master or mistress commanded her, upon pain of death. Desperately, Sang-mí silently willed him, "Oh, please, oh please, Master, you are a good and kind man! By whatever is holy in this world, do not compel me to give my babe over to this strange foreign woman!"

"Master," Sang-mí labored to find the right words, "I cannot!" She squirmed under the stare of the three other adults in the wain. "...I mean..." Oh, Gods, give me strength, she thought frantically, tell me what to say! "...Nib has a terrible case of dysentery!" she blurted out, her words pouring from her quivering lips. Then remembering her place, she lowered her voice and added apologetically, "That is why he is crying."

Tushratta put a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "There, there, dear little mother, you should have told Aziru or me and not kept the babe's illness from us." Looking over to Aziru, he added, "I am prescribing a syrup of opium for this condition. Aziru, prepare the medication at once, explain the use of it to Sang-mí, and give a bottle to her as soon as I leave!"

Relief rushed over Sang-mí, the recent tension leaving her shaky and weak in her knees. She was not accustomed to lying to her masters; the penalty for such a grievous crime could be mutilation or death. She looked to Goldwyn, who still sat calm and sedate, the gentle smile never leaving her face.

"Master," Sang-mí nervously licked her dry lips, "forgive a poor slave for saying this..." She must get Nib away from this woman as quickly as she could. There was something evil about the lady. "No, no," she thought, "not the woman herself, but the curse which lies over her." Sang-mí turned her head towards Tushratta. "Please do not beat me, Master, but perhaps it would be best if my son and I return to the wain with the other women. I am afraid that my son's crying would be disruptive to the Lady Goldwyn." Nib balled his hands into fists, went very red in the face, strained, and howled in anger. Sang-mí cooed softly at her son as she rocked him in her arms.

"Master, I do not know how long he might be ill. Please, I humbly, respectively ask you to choose another in my place as maid to this lady." The servant girl forced herself to keep her voice calm and a polite smile upon her face.

"Sang-mí," Tushratta replied, "I do not feel this is necessary. Your son seems to cheer the lady Goldwyn, and I think that his presence here would be a positive benefit for her."

"As a mother of three sons, I have seen about every sickness a child could possibly have, including dysentery," Goldwyn offered haughtily, her expression condescending. "His crying will not disturb me. In fact, I know a few remedies which helped my sons and might help yours." How young and ignorant this girl was, to think that she, a mother of three, would actually take offense at hearing a baby cry!

"Oh, the witch!" Sang-mí railed in her mind against Goldwyn. "She might be far more clever than I am, but I shall outwit her! Never will I let my child fall into her hands!" If this woman of the enemy were to hold her child, who knew what evil spell she might cast upon him!

"Aye, Sang-mí. The Lady Goldwyn has had three sons of her own, and I am certain that only good will come of this," Tushratta reassured as he patted the slave girl's shoulder again.

"But Master," Sang-mí groped for any excuse, and almost laughed when her mind hit upon one, "I fear I am coming down with the same ailment as my son! Oh!" she exclaimed as she clutched her abdomen and sagged against the bench. "My stomach! Ohh!"

"Tushratta," Aziru spoke up, "perhaps the girl is right. The medicine will take a while to work, and if the child is fretful and crying, he will disturb the lady's sleep. If you permit me to suggest it, I would recommend that Sang-mí return to the wain of the women, and Barsud take her place. Her two sons are fine, stout lads now and do not need their mother so much. Besides, they have tasks that keep them occupied."

"Yes, Aziru, dear Aziru!" Sang-mí thought joyfully. She felt like kissing Aziru, no matter how thin his hair or large his nose or how ugly he was! The next time he went to the tent of the prostitutes, she would pleasure him beyond his wildest desires. She prayed silently to her gods, "Persuade the Master! Barsud has nerves of steel and little will trouble her."

His brows furrowing in a frown, the master physician reflected a few moments before giving his decision. "In all my years as a physician, I have found no remedy any more efficacious than syrup of poppies for the treatment of dysentery. Since Sang-mí is coming down with the same malady as her son, there is a possibility of contagion here. In any event, while taking the medication, Sang-mí's efficiency as maid will be lessened." Goldwyn looked at him, disappointment plainly written on her face. Tushratta smiled at her sympathetically before turning back to Sang-mí. "Aye, Sang-mí, you will take your son and go to the wain of the women. Tell Barsud that she is to replace you as maid and report immediately."

"Thank you, Master," the slave girl murmured, bowing her head humbly.

"Now I must be going. I will return to eat the midday meal with you, and see how everything is going." Tushratta gave them all a bland smile as he turned to walk to the door. He wanted to say something more, some encouraging medical platitude that really meant nothing, except that he was concerned, that he cared. Why did he always have to be inept when it came to saying the appropriate things? There must be something he could tell the lady, but his mind was like a fallow field. Halting at the door, he turned back to them. "Peace upon you all." Then he made his way quickly down the stairs and walked a few paces to where a groom was holding his sorrel mare.


	2. Chapter 1 - Perceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

JOURNAL OF THE PHYSICIAN TUSHRATTA OF KHAND  
 _Dawn of 24 Simanu, the thirtieth year of the Reign of King Shapsusharr of Khand_  
June 20, 3019, according to the Western reckoning

Observations on the Patient, Goldwyn, widow of Fasthelm of Grenefeld in the Eastfold of Rohan, who perished in the war

"I have only a few hurried moments to record my thoughts this morning, for the caravan is scheduled to depart very soon from this lovely camping place by the Anduin. All my medical paraphernalia, instruments and supplies, personal effects, clothing and books have been packed and loaded in the baggage wagon, as have Aziru's possessions. For the ease of my lovely patient, I have had my own wain outfitted with a number of comfortable cushions and pillows, along with quilts and blankets and sleeping mats. Both the servant girl and Aziru will ride in the wain with the lady so that they may be readily on call should she need them. I also thought it prudent to order two men to ride as escort for my wain. Though there is little danger in crossing the floating bridge, still the driver might require assistance if the horses should prove balky. To the best of my ability, I have seen to my patient's creature comfort; unfortunately, I have been able to do little to attend to the solace and healing of her mind and soul.

"Early yesterday evening, the lady's mind had seemed considerably clearer, and her general condition greatly improved. Yet as the evening progressed, she gradually grew more and more melancholy until at last she lapsed into uncontrollable sobbing. For a while, she proved obstinate and refused to lie down, but finally Sang-mí - who is acting as her maid - and I persuaded her to rest. After dismissing the slave girl, I convinced Goldwyn to share a goblet of wine with me. Though she was not aware of it, I had added a measure of opiates into the draught, but only a mild dose, merely as an aid in helping her sleep. I might note that too strong a dosage over too long a period of time can cause addiction. However, a small amount during the treatment can be beneficial in calming patients' minds.

"I sat by her bed, and, quite out of the ordinary for her, she seemed willing to converse with me. I think it proper here to remark on my observations on her general condition at this point. By this time, her mood seemed to have settled after her crying fit. She appeared to be improving in health and there was even a light pinkish flush to her complexion which gave me reason to hope that her vitality was returning. Her breathing was quite normal, although I noticed a slight elevation in its rate. I did not think this was of any particular significance, perhaps reflecting only a degree of shyness on the part of the patient. When we are in private, she sometimes exhibits a certain delightful quality of childlike playfulness, which I find quite charming. When I teasingly reminded her that there was a drop of red wine clinging to her lower lip, she demurely licked it away with the tip of her pink tongue, her large blue eyes quite adorable.

"Smiling at me, she drifted off into slumber, and I felt confident that nothing would disturb her rest that night. When I was certain that she was asleep, I quietly made my way to my own sleeping mat. All was quiet, and the tent was dark, save for one lamp which was left burning. How I enjoy the quietude of the night with no sound save the gentle, rhythmic breathing of the tent's occupants and the occasional reassuring announcement of a passing guard that 'all was well.' It is during these times that I often meditate, pondering what I, as a physician, can do to alleviate the sufferings of my patients.

"Though I had some difficulty falling asleep because of my overstimulated mental processes, my body was at last able to relax, and I drifted off into restful slumber. I slept the sleep of exhaustion until my rest was disturbed by a long, piercing shriek. At that horrifying sound, all the occupants of the tent were instantly awake. Sang-mí was terrified and confused, and not knowing what to make of any of it, gathered her wailing son protectively into her arms. She was close to bolting from the tent when I halted her. Aziru, who had been dozing fitfully, sprang to his feet, looked about for a weapon, and swore that the slaves had mutinied once again.

"Too alarmed even to dress, I rushed to the patient's bedside, where I discovered that she had thrown off the light sheet and quilt which had been covering her and torn away her gown. That in itself was not surprising, for even those of the soundest of minds might do such a thing unknowingly in their sleep. She seemed totally oblivious to our presence, however. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted as though she were in the heat of passion, and across her breasts and stomach was the flush of desire. She lay there totally nude, writhing and twisting upon the couch and groping her intimate regions.

"Shaking her gently by the shoulders, I attempted to awaken her. I had some hesitations, though, for I knew that when she came to her senses, she would be highly embarrassed by her behavior. Such feelings of guilt are generally disruptive to those patients whose mental condition is already unsteady and can drive them deeper into madness. As I bent to pull the covers over the lady, she sat bolt upright and, clasping her breasts, she held them out as though offering them to me. Though I admit that she was a sore temptation, I restrained my passions and attempted to calm her. Moaning some unintelligible words in her own language, she raked her fingernails across my bare chest, leaving a trail of oozing scratches in their wake. With the strength I could not believe possible in a woman, she clutched me around the shoulders, and, throwing me off balance, pulled me to the bed with her.

"Before I could stop her, she had wrapped her legs about my hips, pressing her pudenda against me. In her madness, she slid her hand into my loincloth and grasped my manhood. Her body glistened with a sheen of perspiration, and I could not mistake the scent of musk mingling with the perfumed oils. She babbled incoherently, her speech disjointed and filled with growls, guttural sounds, and moans.

"Aziru, usually all bluster and bravado, was momentarily stunned into inaction and stood in the middle of the floor, his eyes staring and his mouth hanging open. He was just as bewildered as I was at the patient's unnatural strength and her unexpected decline into sensual depravity. Being so familiar with her customary modesty and propriety, both of us found it difficult to believe that anything short of total dementia could drive her into such a carnal frenzy.

"Though she struggled, clawing and scratching as would some wild beast, together Aziru and I were able to subdue her without harming her. After we had tied her wrists and ankles together, all the fight left her, and she sank back into the bed, trembling and exhausted, her eyes glazed. I prescribed another dose of opiates, enough to hold her for some hours. Then I ordered both Aziru and Sang-mí back to their mats, whilst I stayed by the patient's bedside the rest of the night, sleeping little, my eyes seldom leaving her sleeping form, alert and dreading any new developments. There was nothing to fear upon that score, though, for the drugs had their effect, and she slept peacefully the rest of the night.

"I have almost concluded that when she is in her delirium, she mistakes me for her dead husband, Fasthelm. She must be made to realize that he is gone forever. Here I must go slowly in my treatment and not stress her, for I do not know how many more shocks her debilitated emotional state can tolerate. The sooner I can persuade her of his death, the sooner she can progress towards recovery. I believe that much of her difficulties have arisen because she is in severe denial.

"One of my concerns is that she could possibly develop an obsession for me. Equally as bad, I have read in my medical books from Bablon that sometimes even the most conservative of physicians can develop an unnatural preoccupation for their female patients. This is why many men will never allow physicians to examine their women unless these ladies are veiled, swathed in sheets, and attended by a household eunuch. Even at that, the more zealous men refuse to let the physician touch the woman when he examines her. The physician is restricted to tying a string around her wrist, using that to determine not only her pulse but everything that ails her. Aziru and I both must exercise the highest of professional ethics and keep our minds trained only upon the business of healing.

"I had hoped that by the time the Shakh rejoins the train that the woman would be well enough to turn over to his keeping. In light of the past events, however, the firm conviction has taken root in my mind that it would be in the lady's best interests to remain in my care. At present, I am uncertain how long this might be necessary, but at least it must be until I can determine a diagnosis and formulate some treatment.

"Though I would have wished to consult the scrolls concerning aberrations of the mind, there is no time this morning. Once again, I am left with the unpleasant realization that I do not possess the knowledge to understand the strange malady which vexes her. Though I hold little belief in the power of the supernatural, I cannot help but think that I must look beyond the physical to find the answers in this case. I am manifestly aware of my inadequacy in this area, and curse my shortsightedness for not having the willingness to investigate the path of the shaman, the ashipu!"

***

Putting his down reed pen and blotting the parchment, Tushratta packed his writing instruments in their tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl inlaid writing case of lacquered rosewood and gave it over to Hibiz. Then, unwilling to entrust the lady's safety to any but himself, he tenderly picked her up in his arms and carried her to the waiting wain.

"Fasthelm..." Her blue eyes fluttering open, Goldwyn reached up to encircle his neck with her arms.

How beautiful she looked that morning! He drew his breath in sharply, her loveliness making his heart beat faster. He would miss her this day whilst he was away leading the caravan. But there was always the night... "No," he reprimanded himself, "do not ever allow yourself to have such thoughts!" Still he could not forget the memory of her last night - her blue eyes gleaming with wantonness, her full breasts with their pink nipples, her body pressed close to him as she convulsed in wild paroxysms of insane lust. Such fantasies were unethical, though, for the poor woman would never act in such a provocative manner if she were in her right mind.

"How pleasant is the dawning of the sun upon the fair face of beauty! However, I am not your husband Fasthelm, my lady, and you must never call me by his name," Tushratta replied quietly as they reached the wain.

"No, I suppose you are not," she murmured, her eyes reflecting uncertainty.

"Tushratta and my lady, so good to see you this morning!" Standing in the doorway of the wain, a bowing Aziru beckoned them to come inside. The sight of the exuberant little man brought a much-needed sense of normalcy to the situation. "My lady, you look much better!" Aziru exclaimed as he moved aside for Tushratta to carry the lady inside the wain. Once again she had slipped into her icy shell and only stared at the little man.

Sang-mí, her babe in her arms, smiled gently at Goldwyn before lowering her eyes and bowing her head in the perpetual gesture of servitude. The physician eased Goldwyn onto one of the cushioned benches. Aziru kept up a constant stream of chatter, but Tushratta, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful woman, gave only perfunctory replies to his remarks.

"Master Physician... and my lady," Aziru turned his head towards her, "all is in readiness for the journey." He darted his eyes back and forth from his listeners to the interior of the wain.

Along three sides of the spacious wain there ran a bench, its upholstery of sturdy wool woven into a geometric pattern of brown and green. While the texture and pattern were plain, the cushions were deep and inviting. There were four windows along the walls of the wain - a small one behind the driver's seat; one on each side of the wagon; and one in the door. In bad weather, the open apertures of the wain could be shuttered, and a small brazier placed in the center aisle. The wain could be made even more snug by drawing the heavy dark drapes over the windows.

"No matter where you might travel, whether you went to the cold, frigid lands of the North or the sultry deserts of the South, you will never find a wain constructed of any better workmanship than this one!" Aziru boasted. "Just test the springs if you will!" Bouncing up and down like some absurd clown at a country fair, he grinned like a simpleton. In spite of his antics, not even the slightest smile graced Goldwyn's lips.

Her apathetic silence did not deter his good humor in the least, and he bounced even harder, causing the wain to shake and rattle. "Ah, my good lady, is there no pleasing you?" He gave another upward thrust of his body and rose even higher. "I do not boast idly about this wain! The Gondorians, in their generosity, provided it to us. It was first a military ambulance, but it has converted quite well."

Nib was no more impressed than Goldwyn. He looked at Aziru reproachfully; then squeezed his eyes tightly together and let out a lusty wail. Smiling apologetically, Sang-mí dandled the child up and down on her lap, which only caused him to wail louder. Her pleading eyes met Aziru, who, with a final bounce and a laugh, stopped jumping and wiped the sweat from his ruddy brow.

Goldwyn's harsh expression softened slowly, the deep lines leaving her forehead. A gentle smile infused her features as she reached out her arms to Sang-mí. "Give him to me," she softly urged. "I can quiet him."

Her fingers undulating like reeds in a gentle breeze, the golden lady beckoned to the Haradric girl. The icy blue eyes held the slave girl transfixed, unable to turn away. Icy shivers danced down Sang-mí's spine as she sensed a fell presence hovering about Goldwyn. "How foolish of me," Sang-mí rationalized. "This woman surely holds no peril!" As much as she tried to reassure herself that these apprehensions were only a product of her imagination, her intuition told her otherwise. The woman's very foreignness was alarming in itself!

"Sang-mí, sweet girl, whatever is wrong?" Tushratta's calm voice broke the spell.

A look of alarm on her face, Sang-mí's frightened eyes quickly went to Tushratta's. Though Goldwyn appeared to be possessed of her senses, Sang-mí was convinced that she caught a feral gleam deep within the woman's eyes. All her instincts warned her, "No! No!" However, she was only a slave and must do whatever a master or mistress commanded her, upon pain of death. Desperately, Sang-mí silently willed him, "Oh, please, oh please, Master, you are a good and kind man! By whatever is holy in this world, do not compel me to give my babe over to this strange foreign woman!"

"Master," Sang-mí labored to find the right words, "I cannot!" She squirmed under the stare of the three other adults in the wain. "...I mean..." Oh, Gods, give me strength, she thought frantically, tell me what to say! "...Nib has a terrible case of dysentery!" she blurted out, her words pouring from her quivering lips. Then remembering her place, she lowered her voice and added apologetically, "That is why he is crying."

Tushratta put a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "There, there, dear little mother, you should have told Aziru or me and not kept the babe's illness from us." Looking over to Aziru, he added, "I am prescribing a syrup of opium for this condition. Aziru, prepare the medication at once, explain the use of it to Sang-mí, and give a bottle to her as soon as I leave!"

Relief rushed over Sang-mí, the recent tension leaving her shaky and weak in her knees. She was not accustomed to lying to her masters; the penalty for such a grievous crime could be mutilation or death. She looked to Goldwyn, who still sat calm and sedate, the gentle smile never leaving her face.

"Master," Sang-mí nervously licked her dry lips, "forgive a poor slave for saying this..." She must get Nib away from this woman as quickly as she could. There was something evil about the lady. "No, no," she thought, "not the woman herself, but the curse which lies over her." Sang-mí turned her head towards Tushratta. "Please do not beat me, Master, but perhaps it would be best if my son and I return to the wain with the other women. I am afraid that my son's crying would be disruptive to the Lady Goldwyn." Nib balled his hands into fists, went very red in the face, strained, and howled in anger. Sang-mí cooed softly at her son as she rocked him in her arms.

"Master, I do not know how long he might be ill. Please, I humbly, respectively ask you to choose another in my place as maid to this lady." The servant girl forced herself to keep her voice calm and a polite smile upon her face.

"Sang-mí," Tushratta replied, "I do not feel this is necessary. Your son seems to cheer the lady Goldwyn, and I think that his presence here would be a positive benefit for her."

"As a mother of three sons, I have seen about every sickness a child could possibly have, including dysentery," Goldwyn offered haughtily, her expression condescending. "His crying will not disturb me. In fact, I know a few remedies which helped my sons and might help yours." How young and ignorant this girl was, to think that she, a mother of three, would actually take offense at hearing a baby cry!

"Oh, the witch!" Sang-mí railed in her mind against Goldwyn. "She might be far more clever than I am, but I shall outwit her! Never will I let my child fall into her hands!" If this woman of the enemy were to hold her child, who knew what evil spell she might cast upon him!

"Aye, Sang-mí. The Lady Goldwyn has had three sons of her own, and I am certain that only good will come of this," Tushratta reassured as he patted the slave girl's shoulder again.

"But Master," Sang-mí groped for any excuse, and almost laughed when her mind hit upon one, "I fear I am coming down with the same ailment as my son! Oh!" she exclaimed as she clutched her abdomen and sagged against the bench. "My stomach! Ohh!"

"Tushratta," Aziru spoke up, "perhaps the girl is right. The medicine will take a while to work, and if the child is fretful and crying, he will disturb the lady's sleep. If you permit me to suggest it, I would recommend that Sang-mí return to the wain of the women, and Barsud take her place. Her two sons are fine, stout lads now and do not need their mother so much. Besides, they have tasks that keep them occupied."

"Yes, Aziru, dear Aziru!" Sang-mí thought joyfully. She felt like kissing Aziru, no matter how thin his hair or large his nose or how ugly he was! The next time he went to the tent of the prostitutes, she would pleasure him beyond his wildest desires. She prayed silently to her gods, "Persuade the Master! Barsud has nerves of steel and little will trouble her."

His brows furrowing in a frown, the master physician reflected a few moments before giving his decision. "In all my years as a physician, I have found no remedy any more efficacious than syrup of poppies for the treatment of dysentery. Since Sang-mí is coming down with the same malady as her son, there is a possibility of contagion here. In any event, while taking the medication, Sang-mí's efficiency as maid will be lessened." Goldwyn looked at him, disappointment plainly written on her face. Tushratta smiled at her sympathetically before turning back to Sang-mí. "Aye, Sang-mí, you will take your son and go to the wain of the women. Tell Barsud that she is to replace you as maid and report immediately."

"Thank you, Master," the slave girl murmured, bowing her head humbly.

"Now I must be going. I will return to eat the midday meal with you, and see how everything is going." Tushratta gave them all a bland smile as he turned to walk to the door. He wanted to say something more, some encouraging medical platitude that really meant nothing, except that he was concerned, that he cared. Why did he always have to be inept when it came to saying the appropriate things? There must be something he could tell the lady, but his mind was like a fallow field. Halting at the door, he turned back to them. "Peace upon you all." Then he made his way quickly down the stairs and walked a few paces to where a groom was holding his sorrel mare.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Search for the Sublime Elixir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Goldwyn's shrill voice interrupted Aziru's reverie. "Sir, do you have any objections to my opening the curtains over the windows?" He tried to ignore her, but she seemed bent on disturbing him. "Perhaps you are unaware of the moldering reek of that foul old book, but let me tell you in simple terms, it stinks!" She looked right at him, her nose twitching in contempt. "And I have no idea what is that dreadful stench that surrounds you, but if I am forced to endure it much longer, I fear I will faint! I must have air!" She fanned herself furiously with her hand.

Aziru glanced up, the sour expression on his face clearly showing his irritation. He quickly forced himself to look pleasant, or at least neutral, for he was determined not to antagonize the woman. She was talking so fast in her Northern accent that he could barely understand what she was saying anyway, except that every word was insulting. "Ignorant barbarian wench," he thought with disgust. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to speak patiently. "That 'dreadful stench,' as you call it, is a fragrance compounded of the most expensive ambergris and sandalwood, and it cost me quite a lot! Since you find it offensive, however, go ahead and open the curtains if you want."

In truth, the fragrance was an inexpensive one which he had purchased for a bargain price in the great souk back in Nurn, but he would not admit that to the haughty bitch. He would not attempt to explain to her about the book either, for it would be useless. How could a lowly woman understand such lofty matters anyway? His gaze dropped back to his place on the page.

Satisfied with his reply, Goldwyn turned away from him and pulled aside the drapes to allow the fresh breeze into the stuffy wain. A look at the early morning skies revealed pink clouds splashed across the blue heavens, a harbinger of turbulent weather later that day. She watched the scene outside with casual interest. Dying campfires were being snuffed out as supplies were loaded onto the wagons. How strange it was to see such activity in this ancient city of ruined halls and crumbling buildings.

Eager to lose himself in his favorite subject and forget the existence of this hostile woman, Aziru eagerly read over the pages. "For much of my life, I have searched for the key which will unlock the very secret of life itself. The ancients believed that a substance existed which would effect a transmutation of mortal flesh into the divine and bring about an era in which all sorrow would be ended. Sometimes I feel that I am close to its discovery, but when my mind reaches out to cross the threshold into sublime knowledge, the secret eludes me! I had almost given up hope when fortune led me to this tome! The pages almost hum with unseen power! I know the answer is here!"

Aziru looked up, the sheen of perspiration on his broad face giving a glimpse of the intensity of his great mental struggle. "The sublime elixir - flawless, faultless, paradisiacal and perfect in all of its ways - the potion that endows even the most ancient of men with eternal youth and immortality!" He closed his eyes tightly, his mind wrestling to unlock the secret of the ages. Yet as he neared the unseen portal to esoteric knowledge, he felt it slam shut with a loud clang.

Sensing Goldwyn's disapproving gaze upon him, he opened his eyes and glared at her. He watched in satisfaction as she quickly averted her eyes and looked away. "Foolish woman," he thought smugly as he went back to his meditation. Putting her in her place made him feel better. Now perhaps he could achieve a perfect state of mental harmony. Once again he calmed his mind and attempted to drive away all distracting thoughts.

"Always has mankind striven for the elusive goal, but he has failed miserably." One hand hovering slightly above the blessed tome, he listened to hear the steady rhythmic beating of his heart, and felt the universe pulse in time. "Man has devised potions and nostrums from every conceivable substance, including metals extracted from the earth and even costly gems which have been ground to the finest of dust. The secret of life cannot be found in these substances! It must be found in that which had life itself!

"How few understand this simple, irrefutable truth! The key to unlocking the mystery of life must be found in food, for it nourishes the body, though only temporarily at present. When at last the secret is deciphered, perhaps it will be no more mysterious than the inclusion of a spice from a land not yet known. Maybe the secret is hidden in a drop of some lowly green slime that grows innocuously at the bottom of a pond!"

Aziru longed to move into a deep trance state. Only there would his mind be liberated from the restraints of the physical, and he could wander freely into the airy realms of the metaphysical. He tried again to relax and concentrate on the book, but still there was a force which resisted his will. Each time when he had almost transcended the barrier and entered the elevated state, he was met by thick, stubborn resistance. What was it? His large brown eyes bulged open. The woman! She had thwarted him at every turn. Her mind was filled with a thick miasma of confusion! He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. He must restore his concentration before he could even think of resuming.

At last after composing himself, Aziru went back to his reading and tried to free his mind once more. Only then could he delve the secret meaning behind the words of the book. He would fight the gray cloud of depression which hung about the Northern woman like a shroud. If he did not thwart her negative aura, she would destroy every positive influence that emanated from the book. After he had broken her hold, he would be able to concentrate and redirect his thoughts into more positive channels. Only then could he travel to the headier spheres.

"Breathe slowly and deeply and feel the harmonies of the book," he urged himself as he cradled the wondrous volume in his hands. The pads of his fingers tingled as he felt a burst of psychic energy surging through the covers of the book. The book was trying to speak to him! The secret would soon be his! Nothing could stop him now!

For the single beat of a heart, it seemed to Aziru that the destiny of mankind hung upon a fragile thread, and then all crashed about him. One of the horses pulling the wain snorted and kicked, breaking wind thunderously and without interruption for some moments. Startled, Aziru almost dropped the book, and when the sound went on and on, he winced at each salvo. He realized with a sense of sickening despair that the mood had been totally shattered and the portal had been closed, perhaps for all eternity. Nothing was going right! "How could this be?" he fumed. At the very moment when he had been on the verge of unlocking such incredible mysteries and showing mankind the path to self-actualization, a damned horse had profaned the zephyrs! It was hopeless. He gave a long, weary sigh, tugged his nose and shot a glance at the woman. He would try again when they camped for the night. Perhaps then he would have peace. He closed the book and, with a suspicious look at Goldwyn, put it back in his trunk.

"Why are you looking at me?" Goldwyn demanded testily. This repulsive, bulbous-eyed little man kept staring at her! The looks that he gave her were bizarre, almost crazed! He was constantly glancing between her and his musty old book, his lips always moving, as though he were intoning some dire incantation. Was he trying to cast a spell upon her, perhaps a love spell which would leave her at his mercy and render her helpless to his advances?

But everyone else here watched her as well, their eyes studying her with critical scrutiny, sometimes fear. "They are all watching me as though I were mad!" she thought desperately, feeling the urge to bolt from the wain. She was certain that the doors were locked from the outside and there were guards in attendance. There was no escape! A sharp pain struck her above the right temple, tearing through her brain and threatening to topple her with its agony. Another one of those devilish tormenting headaches was plaguing her again! Breathing heavily, she clutched her head between her hands. She felt so dizzy, as though she were shattering into pieces and spinning away from herself.

Aziru stared at her in increasing dismay. "Bël, no, she is going into another one of her fits!" he thought frantically. Though alarmed by the return of the woman's hysteria, he still managed to speak in a calm, quiet voice. "I might warn you, lady, that escape is useless. The caravan will soon be approaching the floating bridge. Even if you are successful at getting past the guards riding with us, all you would gain from your foolhardy attempt would be a cold plunge in the river. You could drown - other women have met that fate when they attempted to escape in that way. Please calm yourself. The Shakh would be most displeased should anything unpleasant befall you, my lady. You have nothing to fear there, though, for we mean you no harm." He gave her a small smile which he hoped would be reassuring, but she took it to be a perverse leer.

Goldwyn's hands dropped from her cheeks and she stared at Aziru. Damn him, he had guessed what she was thinking! Somehow that made her angry, and her head began to clear. "Aziru, do you assume me to be an utter fool?" she asked coldly. "Of course, I will not try to escape!" She mulled over the things which he had said, and decided she did not believe a word of it. The awful Easterling was lying about the other women, trying to frighten her and make her lose hope! Every instinct told her that most of the women had safely escaped, and she had been one of the unlucky few who had been captured. She could not bear the guilt of knowing that, if she had not encouraged the women to escape, they might still be alive today!

"Certainly not, my lady, but I thought that I should remind you for your own good," Aziru demurred politely, determined not to upset her. How he wished that the woman's health would soon improve! Then she would be returned to the other captives, and never again would she bother him.

At that moment, there was a knock upon the wagon door. Relieved by the interruption, Aziru was quickly on his feet and soon had the door open. "At last!" he exclaimed eagerly as a plump, pretty woman wrapped up in a delicately patterned cloak climbed in the wain. After bowing, she unfastened her cloak and, folding it neatly, laid the garment aside. Appearing to be in her late twenties or early thirties, she had wavy brown hair, wide-set dark hazel eyes, a slightly upturned nose, a blunted chin, and olive skin. She wore a cream colored shirt with short, fluttery sleeves which hung to her forearms; a short black vest trimmed with yellow embroidery; and a pair of slate blue pantaloons. About her thick middle was a sash of deeper blue, and upon her small feet was a pair of black leather shoes.

But Goldwyn paid little heed to the woman's exotic clothes, for her horrified, disbelieving eyes were riveted upon the gruesome scars which marred the woman's olive skin. The memory of a wicked gash sliced from under her nostrils, over her lips, and down to her blunted chin. Running round her neck was a hideous red scar, a gruesome parody of a necklace rising above the strands of beads which cascaded over her upper chest. Other, smaller scars marked her face and peeked out from beneath the bangles on her arms, as though once cruel shackles had bound her.

"What have these savages done to her?" Goldwyn's horrified brain screamed in dismay. What kind of hideous tortures had this woman endured?

"Lady Goldwyn, this is Barsud, your new handmaid," Aziru introduced, then turned to the plump slave woman. "Barsud, the lady's care is now in your hands. Serve her with your life... the great Shakh will expect no less."

Barsud sank to her knees, much to Goldwyn's embarrassment. "Master, this worthless slave is forever grateful that the great Shakh, Esarhaddon uHuzziya, has seen fit in his unending mercy and kindness to allow her to care for this great lady of the North! With happiness and great rejoicing, I will direct all my heart, mind and strength to do this lady's bidding."

"Please do not grovel before me," Goldwyn murmured. "I am a slave, too. Sit beside me, please."

Barsud looked up at Goldwyn, her hazel eyes smiling as she rose to her feet and took a seat on the bench. "O must illustrious lady whose beauty eclipses the stars, I beg you to punish me if I disappoint you for a slave who fails is lower than filth!"

"You beg to be punished if you do not please me?" Goldwyn asked incredulously, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh, Béma!" She groaned aloud in horror and revulsion, and her hand fluttered to her throat. "What have they done to you?" The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she had said, before she had time to contemplate that she might suffer the same fate for her impertinence.

"Done, Mistress?" Barsud's eyes dropped down and she studied her clasped hands. "No one has done anything to me."

"Your body is covered by scars, and you say that they have done nothing to you?!"

"This, Mistress?" Barsud asked questioningly as she brought her fingers to her lips and her neck. "These marks were made a long time ago, but certainly not by the merciful Esarhaddon uHuzziya."

"Then who, Barsud? Tell me who!" Goldwyn implored as she grasped the woman by the forearm and looked deeply into her eyes. She took Barsud's other hand and squeezed it sympathetically. "Please speak freely! No one will hurt you!" She shot Aziru a scathing glare of warning.

The physician's assistant groaned inwardly and raised a hand. Once again, the woman was severely taxing his patience with her constant confrontations. He would have to attempt to keep her soothed by persuasion or he would have to drug her, although he did not like to do that during the day. Still she irked him. Before he began to let his increasing irritation show, Barsud caught the look in his eyes and spoke up in a soft voice. "Master, may I speak?"

"Yes, Barsud, you have permission," he replied, grateful that her diplomacy had avoided a potentially unpleasant scene.

"Thank you, Master." Barsud folded her hands in her lap and began to relate her tale in a calm, clear voice which seemed to belie her troubled past and scarred body. "When I was a girl in Nurn, I was bought by a very cruel master who purchased me for no other purpose than to torture me. He was a Gondorian by birth, and was consumed with hatred for what he considered the 'lesser races,' the people of the South and East. I was especially repulsive to him because I am of Haradric, Gondorian and Umbarian descent, and therefore have a tainted and accursed bloodline. His perverse mind thought of endless tortures, and he delighted in administering them. Luckily, I managed to escape." She paused, and then continued, "But that has been years ago. Much time has passed since then."

"Oh, Barsud, what a terrible story!" Goldwyn wrung her hands fretfully. "Please tell me more!"

"My lady, I have said enough." Barsud hung her head, her eyes reflecting a profound sadness.

"Oh, Barsud!" Goldwyn exclaimed, reading the look in the other woman's eyes. "Please say no more, and forgive me for my poor manners! I should have realized how painful it must be for you to talk about these things." Barsud lifted her face and looked at her gratefully.

"Yes, Barsud, I think you have said quite enough," Aziru interrupted. The Northern woman was flighty enough without being further alarmed by Barsud's gruesome tales of her past. He would be glad if there were no further outbursts from Goldwyn, and the journey could begin in peace. At that moment, though, his stomach growled, a long, mournful wail of protest. "I wonder what is taking the caravan so long to start? I have grown quite an appetite waiting for the journey to commence. Barsud, after you have cleansed away the dust of the trail from our hands, please serve the lady and me the repast that you have brought."

"No, Barsud, please," Goldwyn quickly protested, shaking her head. "I really cannot eat now, but, please, serve your master and yourself." She had been quite unsettled by the sight of Barsud's mutilated face. "Poor woman," she told herself. "She has been trained to tell this far-fetched tale about some wicked Gondorian. Obviously this is a complete fabrication devised to turn me against the people of Gondor. I do not blame the slave, though, for what could I expect from a poor woman whose mind is shrouded in darkness?"

"My lady, as you wish, but should you change your mind..." Barsud smiled at Goldwyn and then turned her attentions to Aziru. After she had cleaned away the dirt from his hands, Barsud opened a large brocaded bag and brought out a smaller muslin sack. "Master, you will find that I have come well prepared." Taking out a small tray, she swiftly filled it with raisins, dried dates and almonds.

"Superb, Barsud!" Aziru smacked his lips, smiling as he took an oat cake and smeared it with honey from a small pot. "I would think I was back in Nurn!" After he had finished the luncheon and Barsud had cleaned up the reminders of the meal, Aziru told her to take a cushion and sit at his feet. Goldwyn sensed that Aziru was sending her a silent message that the place of a low ranking slave like Barsud was on the floor, and not at the side of the master or mistress. She decided not to dispute the matter. Like it or not, she was rapidly learning the ways of these heathen people. She would remember this inequality, though she did not intend to abide by it in the future.

"Now, my lady Goldwyn," Aziru leaned back against the cushions, smiling as Barsud placed a small hassock under his feet, "I cannot imagine what is taking so long for us to get started. If something does not happen soon, I will have to send a message to the master physician Tushratta and ask as to the nature of the delay."

"Oh, Master," Barsud chuckled softly, pleased to be sitting so near to him, "does anything ever begin on time?"

"Hmmm... no," he pondered, "not unless it would be my execution, and that I am sure would start at precisely the announced time... maybe even earlier." He chuckled wryly.

"Oh, Master, please," she turned startled eyes up to him, "do not ever say such a thing! Not even in jest!"

"Merely being light, Barsud," he assured her, gently patting her shoulder. "Now I have other things which I need to discuss while I have the opportunity." He looked to Goldwyn, his face turning serious. "My lady, please do not be alarmed by anything you might see as we pass through the mountains. We will be traveling through Dor-en-Úlairi, the Kingdom of Morgul, a small country which is allied with Mordor." Goldwyn noted the flash of fear in Barsud's eyes before the slave quickly dropped her gaze to the floor.

Goldwyn raised an eyebrow. "Aziru, I am puzzled. Why might this valley be so frightening?" Feigning ignorance, she did not intimate to him that she had heard many tales about the Morgul Vale in the past. Of course, she had no way of knowing the veracity of any of them.

"Do not take me wrong, my lady," he told her, his face set in an expressionless mask. "I have seen nothing myself, but there are those who say..." he paused, making sure that he had her attention.

"What, Aziru?" she queried, interlocking her long fingers together. "What you say intrigues me."

"Well, my lady, to be truthful, some say that a strange phenomenon prevails throughout the valley which causes aberrations in the natural order of things. There have been many accounts of people who reported that they had seen unusual visions, hearing things which are not there, and smelling scents which others do not smell." He smiled uncomfortably. "I assure you that these illusions are just that - illusions. Many can be explained by an over-active imagination. Others are caused by the play of sunlight or moonlight upon the heavy mists which lay over the valley. Some scholars maintain that there are deep fissures in the mountains nearby, and from these chasms are spewed vapors which deceive the senses of ignorant travelers and cause them to hallucinate." Barsud's shoulders trembled slightly, but she remained silent.

His voice hushed, Aziru leaned forward and looked directly at Goldwyn as he tapped the tips of his fingers together, a mannerism Goldwyn found irritating. "The King of Morgul and his lords do little to dispel the rumors and stories which have sprung up about the valley, however. The vale's reputation for oddness is a boon to them, for they prefer to be isolated in their little kingdom and wish to be left alone by outsiders. The lords have even adopted grim, foreboding dress which makes them appear as somber spectres of Death. You have little to fear from them, though, for even here gold speaks with a charm of its own, and the House of Huzziya has been granted safe passage through Dor-en-Úlairi."

Goldwyn returned his gaze boldly. "And you expect me to be unaffected by such stern and dour men who pose as servants of Death?" She laughed hollowly. "I have seen most everything else in the past month, so perhaps I can face yet another challenge to my sanity by these ghouls."

Aziru gave her a puzzled look, wondering if once again her mind teetered upon the brink and was about to plunge into the abysmal depths of madness. Bringing his hand up to his mouth, he coughed discreetly. "While their mode of appearance might indeed be considered eccentric, I do not expect we will even see them. Usually these lords have their spokesmen meet with the masters of caravans. Once past the city, we will approach several fortresses in the valley, where we are required to stop and show our papers. Merely a formality, I assure you, and we should be quickly on our way once again." When he had concluded the speech - which Goldwyn suspected had been prepared for her benefit - the little Easterling seemed almost relieved.

Though it had nothing to do with the lords of the valley, Goldwyn dreaded to ask the next question. "When do you expect your master to return?" she quickly inquired, resisting the urge to clutch nervously at the material of her pantaloons. She was far more afraid of the known than the unknown.

Aziru considered her question and then replied, "That is difficult to say, but I would expect no more than two or three days at the most. Possibly the Shakh and his men already have the captives in tow. In the meantime, the caravan will continue to travel towards the plains of Gorgoroth, where we will set up camp and wait for Shakh uHuzziya."

"He will never capture my sons!" Goldwyn exclaimed defiantly, beginning to rise to her feet before she caught herself. "Not even if he enlists the hounds of hell to aid him in his pursuit!" She would rather think them dead than caught and brought back into the iron embrace of slavery! Exhausted by her emotional outpouring, Goldwyn sank against the cushions, breathing rapidly. She rubbed her temples, wishing now only to slip into herself and dull the grim realities of this harsh world. Aziru and Barsud stared at her in stunned silence, both alarmed by her sudden outburst.

The uncomfortable quiescence inside the wain was broken by the sharp crack of the driver's whip as he lashed over the horses' backs. The wagon jolted forward, the wheels creaking and groaning. A sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Goldwyn's spirits sank as she remembered the iron slave collar about her neck. Somehow it seemed to be growing tighter.

The distance to the Anduin was not far, and soon the wain rolled down a slight incline and onto the floating pontoon. The sound of the many wagons behind them became a thunderous roar inside her skull. "The River!" Goldwyn thought in terror as she looked out the window and saw water passing by on both sides. Her stomach churned, and she feared she might become sick with the constant motion and pandemonium of noise.

When the horses came to the other side of the River, they struggled to pull the wain up the steep incline. "At least we are on dry land again," Goldwyn realized and sighed in relief. Her attention was caught by the scene out the open window on the right, where she saw a smaller river flowing into the mighty Anduin. Where the waters of the lesser river joined with that of the greater, puffs of vapor arose as though a giant were exhaling misty breaths upon a chill winter day. "By Béma!" Goldwyn thought with a small shudder. "How strange! Whatever can that be?" She could not bring herself to ask Aziru.

Soon the procession was past the steaming convergence of the two rivers, and outside Goldwyn could see the ruins of more buildings. Some structures were close to the road, while others were at a distance, nestled forlornly, forgotten in the groves of cypress, cedar and juniper which grew over the site of the abandoned city. Many of the old buildings were little more than ruined shells, invaded by trees and bushes which had pushed between the breaks in the stone to raise their bare branches into the air. The feeling of sorrow and desolation which lay over the landscape was almost palpable.

Finally they passed through the last of the abandoned city. Gradually the landscape began to change, and they could see the tree-covered slopes of the foothills which rose slowly about them. From what Goldwyn could see out the window, they had entered a valley whose channel was cut by the small river flowing by on their right. She looked over to Aziru, who had settled back against the cushions, his eyes gradually closing. The wain had not traveled much further before he was asleep, snoring peacefully.

Barsud giggled softly at the amusing sight of the physician assistant's softly flapping lips. When Goldwyn did not laugh with her, Barsud sheepishly dropped her gaze and studied the henna designs on her fingers. In the center of her palm was a ring of deep amber flowers connected together by trailing vines. More vines radiated outward, stretching to her fingertips, palms and wrists. The same pattern was mirrored on the other side of her hand.

The day was a hot, lazy one, the perfect sort of day for enjoying a long siesta in the shadows of a palm grove or lounging upon a stack of cushions on a shaded veranda which looked out to a tranquil courtyard. Despite the brooding presence of her Northern traveling companion, Barsud began to feel drowsy. Aziru's snoring rumbled in her ears, cajoling her to slip off into the land of dreams. She fought sleep for a while, but the gentle swaying of the wagon eventually had its way with her. Her eyes fluttering closed, Barsud began to doze, her head drooping down to rest upon her chest.

Goldwyn wished that she could do the same, but she was far too restless and tense for sleep to enchant her with its gentle spell. She watched as the scenery outside passed by in changing succession. She was on her way to a new life, a life which filled her with dread.

"Béma," she thought, "give me strength for what lies ahead!"


	4. Chapter 4 - Summer Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

No matter how many times Frumgár turned from side to side or twisted from his back to his stomach, he could find no position that was comfortable. Even if he had been lying upon the softest feather mattress, he would still toss and turn, unable to sleep. He could think of nothing except the fell rider.

Though he could not fathom the strange events of the previous night, there was no question in Frumgár's mind that they had seen one of the mysterious beings who haunted the skies. While none of the prisoners had ever been threatened by one of these foul riders, they still lived in terror of the strange phantoms and their flying beasts. Whenever the creatures tore out of the east or west, women would scream and grab their children, cowering from the shrieking demons who left darkness and fear in their wake.

Fródwine steadfastly refused to listen to any talk about the incident and cut his brothers short when they mentioned anything about it. Fritha, however, had kept Frumgár awake with a steady stream of whispers about the "kind ghost." Frumgár was worried; his little brother would talk of little else except the dark spectre. "Bewitchment," Frumgár shuddered. Everyone knew what happened to people who had been bespelled; they were all doomed to terrible fates. There was no getting out of it; the inevitability of disaster was as inescapable as death.

But why Fritha? Why his little brother? How had he attracted the attention of the cold, dead thing? Had their family not suffered enough already without this calamity? Poor Fritha! Lost to enchantment! Would he now weaken and sicken, turn ghostly ashen gray, slipping away to oblivion, only to join that dark being on the other side of life? What would happen to Fritha... over there? Frumgár could not bear to think any more about it!

Frumgár's attempts at falling sleep were futile, and so he gave up the pursuit. He heaved a sigh of frustration. Drawing himself up to a sitting position, he rested his chin on his hands and studied his brother's features. The younger boy was sleeping peacefully, a gentle smile on his face. "Too peacefully," Frumgár thought apprehensively. "What is he dreaming about?"

When his little brother was born, Frumgár had been overjoyed. He had always wanted more than anything to have a playmate, friend and companion, which he seldom found in Fródwine. His older brother never seemed to have much time for him. He was either helping their father or away on an adventure with friends his own age. While Fritha regarded their elder brother in awe, almost worshiping him, he went to Frumgár when he had a secret to share or when he was troubled.

Before dawn, Fródwine had left them and set out on another one of his solitary journeys, not bothering to say where he was going, or when he would come back. Frumgár had learned long ago that questioning him about his plans only made his older brother angry. While he had never been close to his two younger brothers, lately Fródwine spent as little time as possible with them. "Maybe he plans to leave us and never come back," Frumgár wondered, a feeling of dejection settling over him.

In the east, the sun began to chase away the night. "I will never be able to sleep now," he groaned as he lay down on the hard ground. He had just closed his eyes when he had the strange sensation that something or someone was behind him, gazing intently at him with piercing eyes. Perhaps Fródwine had decided to come back, Frumgár reasoned as he slowly turned his head and looked over his shoulder. There, deep amidst the shadows that still lingered under the forest trees, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a tall figure. Then it was gone, swallowed up by the forest. A spasm of panic shot down Frumgár's spine and fear caught in his throat, choking him like a tight hand. Had the dark rider of the skies returned?

***

Skirting along the edge of the Grey Wood, Fródwine followed the small stream that they had come upon the night before. As his gaze skimmed the surface of the water, he tossed in a few bread crumbs. Hardly had the crumbs settled upon the water than a dark shape darted up and snatched the food. "By Béma! There are fish here!" he almost shouted. He watched the waters for a while, and then with a lingering look at the stream, he turned away. There would be time for fishing later. Now that their provisions had been replenished with the store of orc bread, Fródwine did not feel the great urgency to find food. Anyway, with the discovery of the tinderbox, no longer did he have to worry about how he would cook any game he managed to kill.

Moving away from the stream, Fródwine smiled to himself. Things had definitely improved, and it was all his doing. He had found the orc's knapsack the night before and added that hoard to their own supplies. Boastful of his prizes, he had shown them to the eager eyes of his brothers. He had let them gaze upon the tinderbox, the dagger, and even the orc draught, but he had secreted away a small leather pouch decorated with strips of intricately laced leather. Now that he was away from his brothers and their endless, repetitious questions and their curious eyes, he could examine the pouch at his leisure.

Tossing the bag of food down under a maple tree, he squatted on his heels and inspected the pilfered booty. As he opened the pouch, his hands trembled with so much excitement that he had difficulty loosening the drawstring. He dumped the contents on the ground and a thrill went through him when his eyes caught a flash of ruddy orange. "Jasper!" he inhaled sharply. Once he had seen this kind of stone set in a lady's brooch. He shivered when he thought that the stone had probably been torn from the neck of some Gondorian noblewoman. "Poor woman," he thought sympathetically. "The orcs probably killed her."

A hole had been bored through the stone to string it on a leather cord. It was an orc amulet, Fródwine realized with revulsion. He ought to throw the wretched stone into the stream, where someday it would be swept away to the sea. He turned the jasper over in his hand and thought how pretty it was. In the hands of a skilled jeweler, it could be made into a necklace which would look beautiful about his mother's neck. A look of sadness came over his eyes, and he rubbed the jasper between his fingers.

Even though an orc had once possessed it, that did not make the object itself evil. Holding the stone in the palm of his hand, he watched as the sunlight glinted off its orange-red surface. He tossed it up into the air and quickly caught it before it could fall to the earth. When he clenched the stone tightly in his hand, he felt a warm, glowing heat against his skin.

What could be the harm in keeping this pretty trinket? Cleaning it off in the stream, he dried it with a tattered rag. As he put the cord about his neck, he looked down at his reflection in the water. The rippled image he saw was no longer that of a little boy, but a young man. He rubbed his hand across his chin and imagined himself with a fine blond beard. Then he pushed the charm into his tunic, where it would be safe from questioning eyes. No one need know that he had found it.

Spying the flask of orc draught, Fródwine picked up the container. "I have been wanting to sample this stuff ever since I found it, and I am surely not going to share it with Frumgár and Fritha!" Taking a deep breath, he swallowed a sip of the fiery draught. The liquid hit his stomach with a vengeance, a hot rush of fire churning through his stomach. Momentarily he felt dizzy, and put his hand to his forehead to steady himself. When the sensation had passed, he took another drink, and the second one did not burn nearly so much. A smile lit up his face. Yesterday was his twelfth birthday, the day he became a man, and there was cause for celebration. Perhaps he should consider the contents of the orc pack as his birthday presents, he grinned smugly.

Next he looked at a curious creation wrought of fired clay and embellished with a primitive design done in blue paint. A crude piece of orc rubbish, the disk had been molded with patterns of runes encircling the image of a clenched fist. A tribal emblem, he concluded. The last piece of paraphernalia which he inspected was of much better quality than the pottery disk. A round, convex brooch made of bronze, it was molded with the emblem of the Great Eye.

Fródwine knew exactly what this latter symbol represented. As he raised his arm to throw both the disk and the brooch into the stream where they could do no harm, his hand seemed to freeze in the air. Slowly he lowered it down and looked at the objects. There was a certain fascinating appeal about the two charms, and what could be the harm in keeping them for a while? Perhaps he might show them to his grandchildren someday as he thrilled them with tales of his adventures. "They are only mementos and have no power," he concluded. Before putting them away in his pouch, he wiped the two cultic pieces off with the rag. He took another swallow of the orc draught before he stoppered it again.

As dark clouds frothed and foamed in the skies, the rain that had threatened all morning began to fall. Fródwine muttered to himself; he had to get back to his brothers. He knew that Frumgár would be worried and chewing his fingernails to the quick if he did not return before the storm broke. After glancing around at the small clearing for a few moments, Fródwine slung the pack over his shoulder and then set off to rejoin his brothers.

***

The rain pelted down in gray silver sheets, obscuring everything in Fródwine's vision except for a few feet in front of him. He had pulled his trail-worn hood down low over his face, and the rain dripped off the wool like water falling from the eaves of a roof. Coming quietly upon his brothers through the blinding downpour, he heard Frumgár gasp in terror. Then as he drew close enough to be recognized, he saw the younger boy's shoulders slump in relief.

"You two look as miserable as cats that fell into a well," Fródwine commented as he came closer.

"You do not look so good yourself!" Frumgár muttered churlishly. "Do you always have to frighten us half to death by slipping up like that? Where were you anyway? Fritha and I were worried about you." He snapped out a string of questions before his voice dropped to a calmer tone.

"You should not worry about me. I am old enough now to take care of myself," Fródwine boasted as he moved by his brothers.

"We always worry, brother," Frumgár reminded him quietly. Perhaps it was not the best time to tell Fródwine about the mysterious figure he had seen in the woods. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but what if it were the fell rider himself?

"Yes, we were worried, Fródwine." Fritha sounded both fretful and relieved. "Could you please give us something to eat now?"

"Patience, Fritha," Fródwine scolded as he moved closer to the trunk of a large oak. "To answer your questions, Frumgár. I was hardly slipping up on you. You just did not see me because of the rain. As to where I was, I have been looking for breakfast as usual. Sorry to disappoint you, but I did not find any mushrooms today," he replied dryly as he opened up the food pack and distributed their meager midday rations. His face a mask of seriousness, he found that lying came easier and easier.

"Are you not going to eat?" Frumgár asked before putting a piece of dried apricot into his mouth.

"A little, brother, a little. I do not require as much as you do," he remarked before biting into a dried fruit.

"Could we please have some more, Fródwine?" Fritha gazed up at him with expectant blue eyes that were so pleading that Frumgár could not bear to look at them. "My stomach hurts, and I am miserably cold and wet!" That smile and the pathetic, wan expression would have twisted their mother's heart and earned him all that he wanted, but Fródwine had no pity.

"Here, Fritha, you can have the rest of mine." Frumgár managed a halfhearted smile that was meant to be encouraging. His stomach hurt maybe as much as Fritha's did, but his mother had taught him that he should make allowances for the smallest one of them. "I do not see why you cannot give us more, Fródwine. After all, we have the orc bread now."

"Frugality, brother, always frugality." Fródwine smiled that supercilious big brother smile. "We have to conserve. Now, lads, there is no comfort in standing here in the rain." He closed the pack and returned it to his shoulder. "Since we could not get any more drenched than we already are, we might as well take a little stroll in the direction of Rohan. Take heart, brothers; we are closer to home today than we were yesterday."

"Your optimism is cheering," Frumgár replied dryly, shooting his brother an icy stare.

***

Throughout the afternoon, the rain fell in torrents, alternating from time to time with light showers. Fródwine drove them at his usual furious pace until they came to the edge of a thicket. Leading them deeper into the grove, he finally allowed them to rest. The place that he had chosen was no more than a tiny opening between great trees that had grown so closely together that their branches were intertwined. At least they provided the boys some shelter from the driving rain. Frumgár and Fritha huddled together, their tangled masses of blond hair soaked with water, their clothing saturated.

"Fródwine," Frumgár asked miserably, "do you know where we are?"

"Certainly," Fródwine replied, sticking out his tongue to catch a drop of water which fell from the tip of his nose, "we are a safe distance from the Great West Road and are heading in a general westerly direction.

"That tells me nothing!" Frumgár growled disdainfully. "Do you know if we are even going in the right direction?"

"Not exactly, though if we follow along the base of the mountains and keep away from the road, I think we should be safe. The way that I have figured it, there would be no reason for anyone to be here so far from the road." Slumping against the trunk of a tree, he sat down and pulled the hood of his cloak over his eyes, preparing to nap.

"Fródwine, I am cold," Fritha complained, his teeth chattering. "Please build a fire for us!"

"The wood is far too wet for that, Fritha," the older boy shook his head. "The rain is not that cold anyway. You just like to whine whenever you can. Now be still!"

"I am not whining! I am just telling you that I am cold," the little boy glared. "My clothes are soaked and I am hungry. You do not care anything about us at all, do you?"

"We are every bit as soaked as you are, Fritha, and there is nothing I can do about it," Fródwine reminded him testily as the little boy angrily scowled at him. "Tell you what, little brother," he muttered as he hunched his shoulders against the driving rain. "Maybe if you concentrate, you could conjure up that glorious new friend of yours. Since you think he can do anything, maybe he will build a fire for us, and while he is at it, make a meal appear magically from the air. Then our troubles will be over!"

"Fródwine, you are just mean and hateful!" Fritha blurted out, his face clouding in tears. "All you ever do is make fun of us!"

"Fródwine, perhaps you should not joke about the man we saw last night," Frumgár told him hesitantly.

"Why not?" Fródwine demanded impatiently, his eyes narrowing in a scowl. He considered sampling the orc draught again, for he liked the way it had warmed his body, but he was not prepared to share his secret with the little boys.

"For one thing, you are just alarming Fritha." Shooting their older brother a scolding glance, Frumgár put his arm around Fritha's shoulder.

"We have seen all we will ever see of him," Fródwine replied in a dry matter-of-fact tone. "The thing was only some kind of night apparition because strange things happen around Midsummer. He was just out celebrating a little early." He laughed raucously at his own joke.

At least he was not angry, Frumgár thought with relief. He had always dreaded his brother's rages. Usually when he was in a fit of anger, Fródwine would curse everything from the sun to the moon and then stock off into the woods to brood. Once he had been so enraged that he had driven his fist through a board on the side of the barn. "Well," Frumgár reasoned, "while he is in a good mood, now is as good a time as any to tell him about the figure I saw in the woods."

Taking a deep breath to give him courage, Frumgár plunged ahead with his account. "Fródwine, while you were away this afternoon, I could not sleep, and so I sat there and..." Frumgár's throat felt dry, and his voice choked off.

"And what?" Fródwine was instantly on the alert. His good mood vanishing, he sat up quickly. "You sat there and what? Get on with it! Do not keep us waiting all day!"

"Well, I--" He hated the way his voice trembled when he was intimidated and upset. He could not seem to make his tongue operate. Stuck in his mouth, the little organ stubbornly refused to work. He pushed his shoulders back and faced his brother. "Even though he might hit me for this, he has to know," he thought.

Fródwine's eyes bored into Frumgár's with that daunting frosty blue stare that he always employed when he matched his will with someone else. "Sat there and what? Get on with it!" he repeated angerily. "I see that you have gone back to stammering and shuddering the way you used to do. You are such a weakling and baby! I do not think you will ever grow up and will remain an infant all your life!" Fródwine spat out his hateful words, enjoying the feeling of power they gave him.

"Fródwine, do not be so mean to us!" Fritha spoke up. "He is only trying to tell you something, if you will be quiet and just give him a chance." Fritha hated the way Fródwine bullied both of them, always criticizing them and saying unkind things, especially to Frumgár. "You should apologize for those awful things you just said!" the little boy scolded in his high voice. "Mother would not want you to be so rude."

"I never apologize for telling the truth," Fródwine replied coldly as he folded his arms belligerently across his chest.

When Frumgár had gained control over his stumbling tongue, he cleared his throat and looked his brother in the eye. "You are not going to like this one bit, but you have to know... When I was trying to sleep, I felt as though someone was staring at me. When I looked, way back in the trees, I saw a man."

"And, of course, you are assuming that it was the very same man whom we saw last night," Fródwine replied in a tone of wearied resignation. "Well, little brother, you have listened too long to Fritha's stories, and now you both are imagining that you see hobgoblins. Next you will be jumping at your own shadows!"

"Call it whatever you want, Fródwine, but I saw him!" Frumgár exclaimed adamantly.

A great bolt of lightning raced out of the west and streaked across the sky, the thunder rumbling sullenly behind it. Fritha jumped at the loud crash, shivered in fear and clung to Frumgár's hand for comfort. Fródwine cursed out a railing accusation at the sky. The other two boys huddled together forlornly and waited for the next onslaught of light and noise, but the storm had spent itself in one final barrage. Mulling ominously to itself, the tempest moved away towards the east as the clouds began to lighten behind them.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Miniature of Galwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Two hours after dawn on June 20th, four horsemen, their burnooses billowing behind them in the morning breeze, thundered up the path to the old miller's cottage. Drawing rein outside his door, the Haradric slaver, Esarhaddon uHuzziya, scowled when he saw that there were no trails of smoke rising from the vent holes in the eaves. All was silent. The two orc trackers caught up with them a few minutes later and waited impatiently, their hands lightly resting upon the hilts of their scimitars.

"See to it, Ubri," the slaver gruffly ordered.

Dismounting, Captain Ubri walked to the door and knocked heavily upon it, each successive knock louder than the previous one. "Open, by the order of the authorized agents of Mordor!" Receiving no answer, he turned back to the slaver. "Shakh," he proclaimed irritably, "it appears that no one is home, or they are cowering inside. Shall I have the men break down the door?"

His eyes dark under heavy lids, the slaver nodded his head. "Break down the door and drag the infidel dog out by his beard! The gates of hell are about to open wide and receive him!"

Frowning, Ubri stepped away from the door as the two uruks moved forward. Thrusting their broad shoulders against the wooden barrier, they hurled themselves against it with powerful, furious lunges. The door tore away from its hinges, slamming to the floor inside with a heavy crash. Swords and scimitars drawn, the uruks and Haradrim surged inside with a mighty cry. His dark eyes glittering with anticipation, the slaver waited for his men to bring out the lying Gondorian and the two beauteous slave wenches. The chase had been a long and frustrating one, but perhaps now it was almost over.

A few minutes later, a scowling Ubri, his tawny face livid with rage, led his men back out the ruined door and into the yard where Esarhaddon awaited them. "By the reeking ballocks of Melkor the Black-hearted! The old Gondorian bastard has taken the girls and made good his escape!" Ubri cursed. "Men," he directed them angrily, "search the mill, the barn and all the outbuildings until you find them and bring them before the great shakh! Handle the maids carefully... it matters not what harm comes to the old man!"

"Wait!" the slaver exclaimed, holding up his hand to halt the men. "A purse of ten silver coins to the one who finds the women!" Excited, the men and orcs raised their swords in salute to Esarhaddon. "Then after you have finished with the search, loot all that you can lay your hands upon and torch the rest!" Esarhaddon commanded them. Gritting his teeth, he tried to control the dark rage which had possessed him. "Now, go, men, and find the prizes!"

With a great cheer, the men and orcs ran to carry out the slaver's orders, all except for Ubri. The Captain fell to his knees beside the Shakh's stirrup, reversed his sword and held it hilt-first up to his lord. He bowed his head. "By the Gods of the South! I did not mean for this to happen! Either forgive your servant or accept his sword and slay him with the blade!" His honor tarnished, he was filled with shame and regret, for he had been outwitted by an old man and two peasant girls.

Esarhaddon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Ubri, you are far too valuable a man to lose over an honest mistake! Sheath your sword! My forgiveness is extended to you eagerly and ungrudgingly. Your only error was in being so gullible that you let yourself be deceived and betrayed by this treacherous Gondorian. Now rise to your feet and face me as a proud man of my own tribe! May peace be upon you!"

"Most esteemed and praiseworthy shakh, may you be blessed by the Gods and live forever and a day!" Ubri exclaimed gratefully, kissing the sleeve of the slaver's tunic before sheathing his sword. Rising to his feet, he bowed to the Shakh and then went to his horse, which he had left tethered to the front fence. He swung up into the saddle and guided the beast beside Esarhaddon as they turned their horses and rode away from the farm. Silently, they looked back towards the east, where they could see the black smoke from the burning mill, barn and other outbuildings mounting into the morning sky.

"Shakh, when we catch up with them, I beg you to let me have the pleasure of torturing him to death!" Ubri exclaimed, raising his fist and shaking it in the air. "The dog deserves everything he has coming to him!"

"Perhaps I will turn him over to you, but in the meantime, we have other matters to discuss," the slaver told him quietly. "Earlier today, you reported to me that the old scoundrel swore that when the women came to his house begging for food, he drove them away. Obviously, he had been hiding them all along and was waiting only for you to leave before he fled with them!"

"Aye, my lord," Ubri nodded his head in ascent.

"Probably the cur bedded both of them within a few hours after they had crossed his threshold! Even if he managed to keep his tool in his breeches, by the time we catch up with him, he will have tasted the sweetness between their thighs! Damn him!" Esarhaddon cursed, clenching his fist. "With the loss of their virginity, they will decrease greatly in value. There, Ubri," the slaver turned to regard the Captain with a sorrowful look, "goes a considerable margin of my profit!"

"Shakh Esarhaddon, that is totally lamentable!" Ubri gave him a sympathetic glance, more for himself than for the slaver, for all of them stood to lose much in this venture.

Stroking his dark beard, Esarhaddon looked thoughtful for a moment. "Still, though, with their golden hair and exotic looks, these two will be very valuable, even if they have been despoiled. Let us see what Fate will deal us."

As the two men looked through the trees where the smoke boiled up in billows of black fury, they could see the men and orcs returning. Their arms were filled with loot, but there was no sign of the twins or the old Gondorian.

"Rejoice, Ubri, and do not look so downcast!" the slaver told him as he reached across the gap between him and placed his right hand on Ubri's forearm. "With this loot to placate them, the orcs will lose some of their restlessness, becoming more enthusiastic to stalk their prey. The women are as good as in our hands already!" Esarhaddon smiled his heavy-lidded smile.

***

When the skies unleashed a torrent of rain that afternoon, Tarlanc led the sisters deeper into the wet, dripping branches of the forest. Although the canopy of barren limbs did little to shelter them from the pounding rain, the girls had no choice except to follow him. The old miller and the twins had been traveling along the northern eaves of the Drúedain Forest since early that morning. Tarlanc gave them little time to rest, and their weariness combined with their now sodden clothing did little to sweeten their tempers. Even Elffled, who had been sympathetic and amiable towards the old man, was complaining nearly as loudly as her sister.

"Oh, please, let us rest," she begged him after the rain had slowed to a drizzle and then stopped altogether. Now the sun began to peep out from behind the clouds, spreading a balmy, hazy warmth upon the land.

"I am tired and wet, and my muscles are so cramped that I can barely move," Elfhild grumbled. Adding to her discomfort was the lingering weakness caused by the heat exhaustion which she had experienced the day before.

"Oh, all right," Tarlanc muttered, shaking his head. "For two lasses who risked escape just to get back to their homeland, you certainly are in no hurry to return." Still, he halted his horse and called for a brief rest.

With a skill which amazed the sisters, the old miller had guided them across the lonely countryside from the village to the Great West Road the night before. Only once had he led them astray, and that was when his exhausted mind and body had given into fatigue, and he had fallen asleep in the saddle.

Sparrow, left to his own devices without his master's guidance, had wandered back towards the mill, leading the gray mare with him for nearly a quarter of a mile. The twins, almost asleep themselves, had not noticed that anything was amiss at first. Then when they had come to a small stream, Tarlanc's horses halted and plunged their muzzles into the water. The movement of the mare had awakened Elffled, and she rubbed her sleepy eyes. Espying Tarlanc asleep and slumped over his horse, she gently tugged his sleeve.

He had awakened with a start, blustering and cursing. "Damned Southrons! Where are they?" Dazed and confused, he looked around and then straightened himself in the saddle, almost dropping the lantern from his hand. "How in thunder did we get here?"

"Tarlanc," Elffled asked softly, "is all well?"

"No, all is not well! When I fell asleep, old Sparrow pulled a dastardly trick on me, and it caused us to lose valuable time. Now we will have to make up for the delay by pushing the horses harder." He reined Sparrow back towards the west. "Lasses, do not think now that I am lost; I know exactly where we are, but it will take us a while to get back to the main road."

Backtracking, they finally reached the Great West Road an hour before dawn. Drawing to a halt in a grove of trees which edged along the road, Tarlanc sat on his horse, watching for the sight of torches and listening for the sound of marching feet. When he deemed it safe, he motioned them forward. Although all three of them were apprehensive of the great dangers they faced and eager to be over the road and into the relative safety of the forest, Tarlanc did not lead them directly across. Instead, he called for them to follow him down the road towards Minas Tirith for almost a mile before turning off to the west.

"Think I am mad, do you not, lasses?" he shouted as he kicked his horse into a trot. "My figuring is that with all the smell of men, orcs and animals upon the road, the trackers will lose our scents. The stench of orc excrement should hide anything, no matter how strong!" Laughing, his beard bobbing up and down with each step of his horse, he made a wild sight as he rode westward with Haun racing along behind.

Soon they had reached the scattered growth of brush and thinly spaced trees which marked the eastern edge of the Drúedain Forest. A league to the south rose the rocky summit of Amon Dîn, standing tall above the surrounding countryside. Riding on to where the trees grew closer together, Tarlanc called a few hours' halt so that they could receive some much needed rest.

It was mid-morning when they set off again, journeying deeper into the forest. Tarlanc was ill at ease in these woods, for they were said to be inhabited by the Wild Men, a race of small people who dwelt in secrecy, disappearing and melting into the trees like spirits. Few ever saw them, but their drums could sometimes be heard, coming deep from within the forest like the heartbeat of some great beast.

Now the sisters sat upon a long fallen tree, their drenched clothing drying in the sun which filtered down through the leafless trees. They watched Tarlanc as he fed the horses scraps of bread. Sparrow and Mithril had long since finished the grain in their oat sacks and dispiritedly mouthed the dry tufts of grass that had clung tenaciously to the soil since last autumn.

"Poor beasts," Tarlanc muttered sympathetically as he ran a hand along Sparrow's neck. He fed the gelding a crust which had been torn off the piece of bread that he had just eaten. Mithril nudged him in the back, pushing her muzzle against him and wickering softly. "Old girl, do not be so greedy!" he laughingly admonished. "You already had your share! Patience, my darlings. The rain and sun will soon summon the grass and herb from the earth once again." As the twins caught his gaze, they noticed that the crows' feet around his eyes seemed to have edged deeper furrows during the night. "The poor beasts depend upon us for our largess, and they do not understand when we cannot provide." Extending his hands towards the horses, he let their velvet muzzles caress his palms before he turned to walk over and sit beside the sisters.

"Tarlanc, I feel so sorry for them," Elfhild sighed.

Rising to her feet, Elffled moved over to Mithril's side, held her halter, and offered the mare her outstretched hand to sniff. "They look in surprisingly good health after what they have gone through." She looked back at Tarlanc and smiled. "How did you care for them through the days of darkness?"

"Ah, lass," he beamed as he reached down and scratched behind Haun's ears, "that was not so difficult to do. Faced with the dilemma of how Haun and I were to survive, I butchered the oxen this spring and smoked and salted the meat. The oxen's undoing was the horses' salvation, for after the cattle were gone, the horses ate what hay was remaining and had plenty of grain. "Do not grieve for the oxen," he chuckled. "Their meat is very good, as you have learned."

"What will you do without oxen when it comes time for the fall ploughing?" Elfhild questioned, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Use the horses?"

"Lass," his eyes crinkled, "I do not know if I will be going back to the mill or not. Perhaps I might find Rohan so much to my liking that I will decide to stay there." He paused and looked down at Haun, who had flopped against his master's legs and lay sleeping at his feet. "Now it does none of us any good to talk about sad things." He opened the pouch at his belt, took out a small object wrapped in muslin, and drew away the cloth to reveal a small miniature. "Come over here, girl," he called to Elffled, "and see if you can tell me who this is."

Leaving the side of the mare, Elffled walked back to the old man and looked down at the portrait. Studying the painting of the stern looking young woman, she offered tentatively, "Is she your wife?"

"Exactly!" he exclaimed. "You are very discerning, my lass. Now if you are truly astute, you know me well enough to realize that a tale is coming. Fetch one of the wineskins from the pack, and we will share a draught as I tell you."

Returning quickly with the requested wine, Elffled sat down beside Tarlanc and handed him the vessel. "Exceptional vintage," he remarked after taking a large swallow. He passed the skin to Elfhild, who thanked him with a nod and a polite word. Haun began to groan and thrash in his sleep, mumbling barks and growls, his legs jerking spasmodically as he dreamed of chasing away an intruder prowling about the mill.

"Your wife was lovely," Elfhild murmured as she took a sip and passed the skin across to Elffled.

"Lass, I always thought her more pretty than lovely; more melancholy than cheerful; more parsimonious than generous. Why, she looks as solemn as a barrister in this portrait!" His exuberant, merry cackle took the sisters by surprise. "If I had known that the miniature would render her likeness so accurately, I never would have commissioned the painter in the first place!"

"Why do you think that the painting does not do your wife justice?" Elffled ventured hesitantly. She was not about to say anything unkind about Tarlanc's deceased wife.

"That is the problem, lass! The portrait does Galwen justice far too well; it looks exactly like her!" Tarlanc was enjoying the effects his words had upon the sisters, and the corners of his mouth turned up mischievously. "When the itinerant painter drove his wain up to the door of my cottage one day, he offered to paint our portraits for a modest fee. Since I had no desire to have mine done, I agreed to allow him to paint my wife's," he chuckled. "She was opposed to the idea from the very beginning, and now in retrospect, I know she was right. All during the time she sat for the painting, she was angry at me, and her feelings show in the portrait."

"She was upset at getting her picture painted?" Elfhild's eyebrows raised in surprise. "I would think she would be flattered!"

"Nay, lass. She was not flattered at all." Tarlanc gazed down at the portrait, lost in bittersweet memories. "On the contrary, she was enraged."

The sound of Elfhild's voice stirred him from his reverie. "Why was she angry?"

"As chance would have it, the very day that the painter arrived was the anniversary of the day that we had wed three weeks prior. Making matters even worse, this was the very same date that she discovered that she was with child, two months along the way!"

"Oh!" Elfhild exclaimed, color rising to her cheeks as she realized that back in his youth Tarlanc must have been an amorous young fellow.

Embarrassed by the awkward situation, Elffled lowered her gaze and scratched behind Haun's ears. The mastiff had just awakened from his restless slumbers, and was hungry for some attention.

"I did not mean to distress you, lasses, but the fact that there was a babe planted in her belly made her enraged at me. You see, she never wanted to be my wife in the first place. She had her sights set upon the cobbler's son, who proved in the end to be a ne'er-do-well and wastrel. Though I suspect that she finally realized his true nature, that knowledge never improved her regard of me in all of the forty years of our marriage."

"Then why did you marry her?" asked a puzzled Elffled, who could scarcely bring herself to believe that Tarlanc's wife had married the kindly old fellow for reasons other than love. "Such a sweet old gentleman, so caring and generous to all," she thought as her heart warmed towards him.

"Her father was far more sagacious than my wife ever was. Her sire much preferred me since I was already a prosperous and successful man by that time. Finding reasons to discourage every other suitor, he rejected all the young men who came to his door save me. Galwen never liked her father's high methods, of course, for she had her heart set on the cobbler's son, and she had fond attachments for a couple of others, too." A distant look came into the old miller's dimming eyes, and he studied one of the care-worn hands in his lap.

"At last, after several years of my wooing her, she finally consented to be my wife. I loved her very much." His eyes slightly moist, Tarlanc looked down at the miniature of Galwen. "I think we have seen enough of this portrait to last a while. I only showed it to you because I thought you might have seen it when you were ransacking my house and wondered who she was." He laughed wistfully as he wrapped the portrait back up and slid it into the pouch at his belt. Taking out his pipe, he packed the bowl and, striking flint to tinder, he ignited a small stick of pinewood dipped with sulfur and held it to the bowl of his pipe.

Elffled took another sip of her wine and looked into his sad eyes. "Surely later she came to care for you as much as you did for her?"

"You are a gentle and tenderhearted lass, Elffled." The old miller put his hand upon the girl's arm. "But, nay, she never did. Whenever I look at the portrait, I never fail to be reminded of her annoyance at finding herself with child."

"But she did grow to love the child, I hope?" Elfhild asked, concerned.

"Aye, lass, indeed she did. She loved him - for the child was a son - every bit as much as she did his father." His eyes crinkled up in a wry smile. "The joke, however, was to be upon me. On her deathbed, she confessed that our firstborn son was not mine, but rather the cobbler's son." Bursting out into laughter, he did not seem able to contain himself, and laughed as the tears rolled down his cheeks in rivulets.

Haun padded over, and, laying his massive head upon his master's knee, the dog turned soulful eyes up to gaze lovingly at Tarlanc. "An outrageously humorous joke, do you not agree, Haun, sir? Well, perhaps you do not, but others might find it hilarious!" he exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Neither sister considered Tarlanc's tale humorous at all, but very sad, and each girl felt sorry for him, and even the long dead Galwen.

"Now, lasses, we have sat here far too long, enjoying ourselves while we shared a skin of wine. I must saddle and bridle the horses and have everything in readiness to leave. I hope to cover many miles before dusk." He stood to his feet, tapped his pipe ashes out on his heel, and headed towards the horses.

"Tarlanc," Elffled called as she scampered after him, "let me help you!"

"Aye, lass, a bit of help would be appreciated. You saddle the mare while I take care of Sparrow," he told her as he put the saddle blanket on the gelding's back.

Elfhild felt herself growing strangely jealous. She could not understand the reason why, but she knew that the growing friendship between her sister and the old man made her feel uncomfortable. She had always wanted to be the center of attention. After all, she was the elder of the pair. Did she not deserve it? Not to be outdone, she went over to the horses and offered sweetly, "Here, dear sister, let me help you."


	6. Chapter 6 - The Broken Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

His hands folded neatly on his rounded stomach, Aziru dozed against the cushions of the wain. As his loud, shuddering snores broke the silence of the compartment, Goldwyn stared at him as though he were a felon. Barsud, almost asleep herself, yawned and glanced down at the embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. The only one who was fully awake was Goldwyn, whose worried thoughts centered on her three sons. Was Fritha, her baby, crying for his mother? Had any of them been injured? Had they been recaptured, beaten... or even killed? She could not bear to think about the grim possibilities.

The late morning sun beat down on the road, creating shimmering heat demons above the pavement. The air was stifling inside the shadowy wain, with only a sluggish breeze coming through the open windows. To Goldwyn, the din from outside was the discordant beating of a drum that never stopped. Guards shouted and cursed, women scolded their young, children whimpered and wailed, horses whinnied, and behind the great train, the herd of beeves bawled vociferously. She looked resentfully across the aisle at her unwelcome companions, her long, proud nose sniffing disdainfully.

"They look quite content," she thought with a certain malicious sarcasm. "The rest of Middle-earth could be dragged down into slavery, but as long as they are comfortable and well-fed, they do not care a whit for the pain of others." Aching to hold her children once more to her bosom, Goldwyn felt more sorry for herself that morning than she had the day before, her self-pity a martyr's burden. Her reproachful eyes condemned Barsud, damning her perhaps even more than she did Aziru. Barsud had mentioned that she had two sons. How could she endure the knowledge that her sons were doomed to be slaves for the rest of their lives? Did she not feel the pain that they would have to suffer? Critical and judgmental, Goldwyn scorned the plump but pretty woman, considering her as nothing more than a common whore who waited, her bovine face placid, for any man to call for her.

A splintering sound like the crack of a broken bone jarred Goldwyn from her spiteful thoughts. The wain shuddered, jerked, and then lurched forward. With a curse, the driver snapped his whip high over the horses' backs, but though the straining animals pulled the traces taut, the wagon did not budge. The wain tilted precariously to one side as a spoke on the left rear wheel broke in two.

The passengers were tossed forward, then backward. Goldwyn grabbed the seat and held on tightly. Stirred from her indolent languor, Barsud reached for her embroidery just before it slid from her lap. She managed to keep her solid form in the seat by bracing her feet against the floor and holding on tightly to the seat. Seized in the midst of a great, trumpeting snore, Aziru's lips rippled as the air gushed out of his mouth. "Wha? Wha?" he exclaimed as he fell crashing to the floor.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Aziru screamed as Barsud helped him to his feet. Trembling and fearing that his bowels might give way from fear, he quickly opened the small window behind the driver's bench, only to find an empty seat. Muttering to himself, the little physician smoothed his robes, brushing them off as though they had been profaned, and then moved to the door. "Stay inside until I know what is going on," he ordered the women before stepping outside. "This could be some attack by Rangers! You never know what those devils might be plotting!"

"Oh, Master, please be careful!" Barsud's panicked voice quavered. "What would I ever do if my beloved master were killed by those unscrupulous men?"

"Silence, woman! I will protect us all!" replied Aziru, doubting that his small dagger would be any defense against the Rangers. He was immensely relieved when he saw no Rangers or brigands, only other wagons in the caravan making their way up the road. He hailed the leader of the rear guard, who assured him that all was well and that he would send a man ahead to the physician to ask for assistance. Greatly calmed by that news, Aziru walked over to the driver and his assistant, who were studying the wheel.

"Why have we stopped?" Aziru demanded.

"Master Aziru, the wheel, sir... it is broken." The man straightened and then bowed, nervously wiping his grimy hands on his tunic. His helper, a youth in his mid-teens, kept his head bowed as he held his cap in his hands, toying with the rim.

"Broken?" the little physician fumed. "That is preposterous! How can it possibly be broken?"

"Well, sir," the wagon master replied, fidgeting under Aziru's hostile gaze, "I am not quite certain, but down the road, we hit a fairly nasty bump. I think the strain on the wheel was too great. Perhaps one of the spokes was not so well made as I had thought--"

"Do not bother me with such unnecessary information, man! How long do you think it will take to repair it?" Aziru's tone was curt and impatient.

"Sir, to be honest, I am not quite sure," the driver mumbled apologies. "I feel that the whole wheel must be replaced."

"This is intolerable!" the diminutive Khandian exclaimed, his face turning red from his neck to his turban. "Certainly you do not expect us to sit out here in the middle of the road all day, do you?" he sputtered, his expressive, finely-formed hands gesturing towards the broken wagon wheel. "This road has heavy military traffic, and who knows when a convoy from the East might pass by?" Aziru wiped his sweating brow, wincing as his hand inadvertently brushed across a large bruise on his forehead.

"Come and look for yourself, Master Aziru. The spoke is shattered." The driver tried to keep the growing irritation from his voice, but still he sounded brusque to the fussy little Khandian. Clearly uncomfortable, the driver's assistant shifted his gaze to his master.

"What an insufferable situation!" Aziru railed to himself. "This fool will take the rest of the day to repair this minor damage!" As it was, the military of Mordor did not hold the slavers in the highest of regards. All that it would take to earn their everlasting animosity was to delay one of their precious patrols.

Pushing his turban back slightly, he scratched his head. Although Aziru knew little about carpentry or other manual labor, he would never divulge that information to the driver and his assistant. Still, though, it did not reflect favorably upon himself to wrangle with these incipient peasants. He would try another tactic. When a man as important as he was took interest in the mundane labors of servants, they always took heart. Gazing solemnly at the wheel, Aziru lamented, "Ah! If this were a matter of a broken bone, I could quickly set it to rights, but in this case, I must rely on the experience and judgment of others." When the tense faces of the wagon master and his helper relaxed into smiles, Aziru knew his ploy had worked.

All heads turned to look as a rider approached and drew rein beside the wagon. "Greetings, Master Aziru, esteemed assistant to the physician Tushratta. May peace and health be upon you!" After the two men had exchanged lengthy and verbose greetings and blessings, the young man continued. "News of your distress has already reached the Master Physician. He was quite concerned, as you might guess."

"Excellent, young man! And what else did he say?" Aziru gave him a benevolent glance.

"Sir, you will be pleased to know that aid is on its way. The Master Physician will be sending a wainwright and his workers to determine the problem, whether the wheel needs to be repaired or replaced. In order to avoid any delays, the rest of the caravan will be directed around your wain." Given to over-enthusiasm, the courier spoke rapidly, his words tumbling over each other. "The honorable physician also advised that until this wain is repaired, you are welcome to use his." The courier, a pleasant-faced man named Hazim, smiled amiably. Always hoping for a promotion, Hazim was eager to impress the little physician. "I am to stay here and assist you in moving any personal belongings."

"Though I appreciate Master Tushratta's kind offer for the use of his wain, I will wait here for this wagon to be repaired." His forehead creased in thought, Aziru peered at the wheel, giving every impression that he was earnestly studying the splintered spoke.

"Are you sure, sir?" the courier asked anxiously, an eyebrow raised. "You might have a long wait."

Aziru chuckled. "What you do not realize, young man, is that every obstacle can be a blessing. As it is said, 'Do not hate misfortune, for maybe there is fortune for you in it.' This situation is no different. While we wait, we will take the opportunity to enjoy a small respite and soothe both our rattled nerves and our gnawing stomachs."

"Yes, sir, as you would have it," the courier replied cordially. "What do you want me to do now?" Hazim looked at the physician's assistant for orders, but before Aziru could reply, Goldwyn stepped gracefully from the wain. Hazim's breath caught in his throat as his eyes hungered for that stunning creature. A regal turn of her head and their eyes met; then with a disdainful shrug that made the courier feel that he was beneath contempt, she turned her flashing blue eyes to Aziru.

"What is wrong, slaver?" she spat out. "Are your jackasses unable to fix a simple broken spoke? From the appearance of the damage, it should be easy enough even for your lackeys. As you might remember, my husband was a carpenter of some renown, and such a splintered spoke would be nothing more than child's work for him," she boasted.

Barsud stepped carefully out of the wain. Shaken by the accident, she breathed heavily, her scarred face pale beneath her olive skin. When she saw the courier, she mustered a weak smile, remembering the last time he had spent the night in the tent of the pleasure women. The courier, his feelings hurt by the golden woman of the North, smiled back at Barsud and settled his gaze on the slave woman's splendid bosom.

"My lady, my lady," Barsud wailed, her hand fluttering at her stomach, which had become unsettled by the tilting wagon, "please do not be frightened! We are safe with Master Aziru and this fine gentleman who has come to help us!" She fretted that the excitement of the accident might prove too much for her mistress' frail mind.

"Frightened? Frightened?" Her voice dripping with scorn, Goldwyn turned to the slave woman. "Appalled would be a better word... appalled at such bumbling incompetency. Your great one-eyed Master seeks to conquer the world, and His weak minions cannot even repair a wagon wheel." Her clear voice rose. "Step aside, men, and let a woman of the North show you how we repair wagons in Rohan!"

Aziru smiled condescendingly at her. "My lady, while I am sure that your inexhaustible talents would prove up to the task, a woman of your standing should never demean herself by doing the work of servants." Her deep, throaty laughter surprised him, but he dismissed her impertinence because she was too ill to think clearly. "I must be patient with her," he thought, "for not only is she mad, but she was brought up in a savage land where the women are coarse and rude. No one there teaches them to be modest, so they think nothing of baring their faces to the idle glances of men."

"I understand, you wretched little worm!" Goldwyn laughed haughtily. "You are afraid that I will show up you and these other pathetic weaklings! Then fetch me a horse and I will ride the rest of the way!"

"I fear I cannot do that, my lady, for that would be breaking the instructions of the Master Physician. I have a much better idea." Before she could reply, Aziru turned to Hazim. "Now find those worthless slave boys and have them prepare a picnic lunch for us."

"Certainly, sir," Hazim replied, jolted out of his daydream about nestling his head between Barsud's huge breasts. "It looks like it may rain today. Shall I have them set up a pavilion for you?"

"No, no," Aziru answered emphatically, impatiently waving his hand. "Nothing quite that extravagant. That would take too much time, and I want to eat! Simply have the slaves set up a large parasol. That will provide us with shade from the sun and shelter from the rain, should the Gods decree a storm."

The courier nodded. "An excellent idea, sir. All will be done as you have requested." Perhaps if he were fortunate, the physician's assistant would allow him to dine with them.

"Oh, yes," Aziru told him as an afterthought, "if the Chief Physician is available, invite him to attend my little picnic."

"Aye, sir," the courier tried to smile as he was dismissed. He should have known that the haughty little bastard would never allow him to dine with him.

After Hazim had ridden away, Goldwyn eyed the physician's assistant coldly. "What now, Aziru?" she asked skeptically. "Are we going to have a picnic in the middle of the road?"

"No, my lady, certainly not," Aziru remarked pleasantly, hiding his irritation behind a wide smile. "There is the spot for our picnic right over there!" He pointed to a sunlit patch of ground at the mouth of a little hollow where a small stream oozed its torpid way towards the Morgulduin. "What can be more pleasant than a picnic on a hot day? We have all that is needed," he beamed enthusiastically. "Food, wine... everything except ice for sherbet." A small scowl knotted his forehead. "But we must be content with whatever fortune provides. The two of you will follow me," he smiled as he strode forward across the road and into the parched meadow beyond.

"Physician's assistant," Goldwyn's voice was loud and strident, "how could you ever think of a picnic when my countrywomen and their children must exist upon the scraps from your table?" Her angry eyes bored into his back.

"My dear lady, how could you ever make such a statement?" Aziru sounded greatly injured. "Certainly since they have come under the keeping of the House of Huzziya, none of your countrywomen have ever gone hungry. Most of them eat better now than they have ever eaten in their lives. Scraps from our table indeed!" Aziru kept walking, not bothering to turn his head and look at her. "Enjoy yourself, my lady, and remember - it is a true saying - that the soul at peace has the best digestion."

As the Khandian and the two women moved to Aziru's chosen picnic spot, the caravan plodded along at a slow, even pace. Goldwyn turned and watched the long line of slave women and their children march by forlornly. "By Béma!" she exclaimed, clutching the side of her head with one hand. "There are so many of them! Did none escape? Tell me, Aziru, and do not lie to me!"

"As it is said, man proposes; the Gods dispose." The small man sighed heavily, fearing that this adage would upset the lady. "A few escaped, but not many."

"My sons, Aziru? What of them?" Goldwyn reached forward and grasped his forearm. She noticed the shocked and disapproving look on Aziru's face as he stopped and turned to her.

"Modest women never touch men without their permission." Annoyed at her presumption, he brushed her hand away as though it were an irritating insect. "Would you destroy your reputation!"

"Do not be preposterous, slaver!" she lashed back. "What a hypocrite you are! What a small, stunted mind you possess! You can touch any slave woman you want, and with far less innocent intentions than mine! How can you preach to me about morality? Every last one of you trades in the most loathsome of businesses, the buying and selling of human flesh! If my reputation is to be soiled, it is not I who will be responsible, but your damned master and his unholy business!" Goldwyn took a deep breath. "Now if you know anything, tell me of my sons!"

"And the other women, my lady? Do you wish to know of them?" Aziru replied calmly, stroking his chin as he studied the woman's face. Was she concerned only for the welfare of her sons? What would be her reaction if all the other women and children had perished and yet her sons had lived? Pondering these things, he wondered if anyone could ever understand the recalcitrant wench.

"Certainly, I will be overjoyed to learn of any who found their freedom. Now tell me, Aziru. Do not keep me waiting for nothing!" she demanded angrily.

"Lady, there were eight who escaped that night - eight - your sons and five women," he replied, his voice placating. "All that is known for any certainty is that of the three women who threw themselves in the river, only one body was ever found. The other two are presumed dead, but who knows? Perhaps they escaped." Shrugging, he held his hands palm up. "That leaves your sons and two women, and if these slaves find that fortune still favors them, they are free, at least for the time."


	7. Chapter 7 - Picnics and Prejudices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Goldwyn knew they were mocking her, that little toad of a doctor and his dumpy bawd! How dare those heathen savages do that! Those ignorant barbarians were envious of the culture of Rohan and its advanced ways, and they would try to degrade her in every way they could. She should not let their stinging words hurt her, but they did. She would never show it, though. Above her on the path, she could hear the woman giggling at some remark from that bloated little bastard.

Since passing over the Anduin, the slavers had not set a guard to watch her every move. They knew she had nowhere to go with a wide river separating her from her homeland. She had not given up the idea of escaping, though. No, she would never do that, but for now, she would simply have to bide her time. Perhaps if she could slip away during the night, she would sneak away to the river and steal a boat. Then she could row across... How much did she know about rowboats? She had never ridden in a boat in her life, and she was not quite certain even how to row. But good would find a way...

When she had topped the knoll, Goldwyn was amazed by the sight before her. The three slave boys had obviously been hard at work, for slightly beyond the crest of the hill, unseen from below, stood a tall, colorful pavilion. Bright and colorful against a landscape still recovering from darkness and an overlong winter, the material was green and yellow, and from its dagged edges tassels of goat hair swayed in the breeze. Beneath the large, airy shelter rested a table bedecked with cloths woven of gaudy crimson and cream. Fine rugs had been spread over the ground and upon them were silken brocaded cushions and pillows, their opulency begging to be enjoyed. Trooping up the side of the hill marched a pageant of servants bearing baskets and hampers filled with provisions for the picnic. Goldwyn stopped, gazing curiously at the scene until Barsud walked down the hill to meet her and bowed politely.

"My lady, the feast is ready, and the physician's assistant bids you come dine with him."

"All this for a picnic, Barsud?" Goldwyn laughed sourly. "Back in my country, only rich lords would dine in such fashion. You people certainly do like your opulence, but I suppose when you finance such extravagance upon ill-gotten riches, you can do whatever you like."

"My lady, I am only a slave like you," Barsud replied softly.

"Of course, you are, Barsud - only a slave, but not just like me." Goldwyn gave Barsud a pitying glance. "The difference is I do not intend to stay a slave the rest of my life, while you do." Brushing past Barsud, Goldwyn walked briskly to the pavilion.

"Greetings, my lady. Welcome to my picnic." Aziru smiled at her and then turned to the three slave boys who stood with heads bowed, waiting for their master's next orders. "Aban, you and the other boys have worked diligently beneath the heat of the sun. The picnic was unplanned - nothing settled until the last minute - and you had little time to make preparations. I am pleased with the performance of you all." The small physician, a sparkle in his brown eyes, regarded the boys with a fatherly smile. For a moment he rested his hand on Aban's muscular shoulder. "Now I think you deserve a reward."

Reaching for the coin purse beneath his cloak, Aziru drew out a few coins and tossed them into the air. With grateful smiles to Aziru, the boys scrambled to catch the coins, laughing as they tried to push each other out of the way. After they had collected their prizes and received more praise from Aziru, the boys were dismissed to take their places at the side of the shelter. As the other servants brought bowls of warm rosewater for washing, Aban and his fellows stood as silently as statues in a lonely graveyard. Aziru, obviously well-pleased with his picnic, made an elaborate display of inhaling the fragrance of the scented towels before wiping his hands on them.

"By the holy paps of Inanna, the Goddess of Love!" he exclaimed as a slave brought him a cup of wine. "I would not be ashamed to offer this feast to the Gods!" Delighted, he watched as the servants placed a large communal bowl of flavorful hummus upon the table. As the only free male present, it was Aziru's privilege to be the first to dip pieces of flatbread into the bowl. After giving the women permission to eat, Aziru waited expectantly to see the looks of gratitude which he was sure would meet his generosity.

"Aziru, what is the difference between this meal and the food you eat everyday?" Goldwyn scoffed, taking a perverse satisfaction in crushing the Khandian's enthusiasm. "If this paltry meal is a feast for your deities, then what are they? Mice?" She eyed the little physician dubiously. "We throw better and more abundant scraps to our hounds in Rohan!"

Aziru was silent for a while, his disbelieving mind attempting to comprehend what she had said. Then as his slight frame trembled in anger, his face blossomed into a livid scarlet underneath his tawny skin. Speechless, he could only clench and unclench his right fist in repressed fury. Barsud, who had been dipping a piece of bread in the bowl, felt her hand pause in midair before she jerked it back to rest in her lap. As though some dire event of calamitous proportions were about to descend upon them all, the servant boys held their breath, careful not to make a sound. Protocol and courtesy had been shattered, and all the slaves waited to see what dreadful punishment would be meted out to the brash and irreverent Northern woman.

"Mice?" Aziru was finally able to choke out. "Mice? You know nothing about the Gods of Bablon, you heathen wench! You know nothing, nothing at all!" Clearly so incensed that his temper was beyond his control, he raised his hand up as though to strike her.

"Aziru, you blessed little man, you have even provided cheese for the divinities!" Goldwyn was enjoying this. The Easterling was such a pompous little fool, and he had needed someone to shake the hinges of his vain delusions for a long time.

"Say one more word, and I will have you tied and gagged! You will not ruin my feast!" Aziru almost screamed. He watched her face to see if he saw intimidation there, and when he beheld the haughty arrogance in her flashing eyes, he became even more enraged.

"Go ahead," she told him cheerfully. "That is all you people can do, is it not? Bully women and children! Torture them when they do not obey you! And when you cannot break their spirit and will, throw them in some rat-infested dungeon and let them rot! Go ahead!" She extended her once lovely hands, the skin sunburnt and abraded by the elements, the fingernails jagged and broken. "Tie them yourself! Here they are!"

The atmosphere over the small gathering had grown oppressively tense, the air charged with a storm of brewing emotions. Barsud shot Goldwyn a sideways glance, silently pleading with her to be quiet and cease goading the physician's assistant. The Northern woman's eyes flashed such a look of malicious glee that Barsud recoiled.

"The witch!" Aziru warned himself. "She tries to make me appear a weakling and fool in front of my own servants! She will not be happy until she sees me lose face, and if I am forced to play her little game, that is just what will happen! The servants will never stop laughing at me behind my back, considering me a powerless man who cannot control even a woman!" He excused himself, however, when he considered that he had not expected such a fierce verbal attack at his innocuous statement. He decided that his best option was simply to laugh the whole thing off while holding her up to public ridicule.

"My lady Goldwyn, although you have insulted the sacred pantheon of Bablon, my feast and myself, I feel that you have done this not through malice but through ignorance. How could you know any better when you have been brought up and nurtured by savages?" He smiled pityingly at her. "It is such a shame that you do not have the protection and comfort that comes from worshiping the true gods." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. "Perhaps the people of your country worship no gods at all! Could this be true?" He looked at her curiously. "Yes, I see by your face that I am correct."

"What the Rohirrim believe is their concern and none of yours!" Gripping her cup, Goldwyn clenched the vessel tightly in her hand, envisioning Aziru's shocked expression when she threw the contents in his face. She only wished that it were a caustic acid that would burn away his loathsome face!

"Unwilling to discuss your belief in divinities? Then you are either a godless infidel, or one who does not have the conviction to follow any beliefs at all." Quirking one eyebrow, Aziru regarded her sadly, smiling to himself as he caught the grin of one of the slave boys behind her.

While it would be immensely satisfying to toss the cup into his face, Goldwyn realized that such a crime would surely be punished. Unwilling to discuss her beliefs with this vexatious little man, she decided to provoke him until he made a complete ass of himself. "What is wrong, slaver?" she hissed. "In your lengthy recitation of my manifold faults, have you become so intoxicated on your own words that you have forgotten to bind my wrists?" Leaning forward, she lifted her arms and thrust her crossed wrists into Aziru's face. "Here they are; either bind them or stop making idle threats!"

"Let me examine them first before I decide on the proper binding material." Smiling like a lusty imp, Aziru caught both her hands in his and turned them over, palm upward. "Such hands as these were never meant to be encased in ropes. Nay, they were meant to be free to caress a man until his blood boils with fire!"

"You lecherous little pig!" She struggled in his grip, but Aziru, stronger than he appeared, held her fast.

"The only thing to go around these arms should be decorations to accentuate your loveliness... bracelets of fine gold and silver for your wrists and rings of priceless stones for your fingers." His voice husky, his small dark brown eyes gleaming with a sensual spark he did not feel for her, Aziru leered suggestively at the Northern woman. No feral beast captured in a snare could have glared at him with any more hatred than that which flared from the golden lady's eyes.

"Let me loose, Aziru! I do not want your filthy hands on me!"

Pulling her struggling hands to his fleshy lips, Aziru flicked his tongue over the palms. "Why do you fight your destiny, lady? You were born to be possessed and mastered by men, and it does you no good to deny fate. Though you would look charming with a gag between your lips, your warm, inviting mouth was designed for far more titillating purposes."

Fighting desperately in his grip, Goldwyn threw her whole weight backwards against the cushions, but Aziru pulled her so close that their faces were almost touching. "When the Shakh comes back, I am sure he will put both your hands and your mouth to good use." He chuckled, knowing that her fury had been smothered under the deep flush of her shame. Laughing, he forcefully pushed her away, as though the touch of her had become loathsome to his flesh. A beaming smile upon his face, Aziru looked around at all those assembled beneath the shelter. "Now if you have nothing else to add, I would like to eat. More wine, slaves."

An unspoken feeling of relief rippled over the ranks of the servants, and, relaxing, they replaced the empty platters, bowls and cups with more food and drink. All were delighted that the barbarian slave woman had been shamed and put in her place... all of them except Barsud.

As Barsud glanced over at the Northern woman, she knew that the lady was suffering. She considered her pale face; the dark shadows beneath her hollow eyes; her thinned lips defiant; the visible strain so apparent on her face; the gaunt body which appeared to be in the grip of some wasting disease; and the long, golden hair, which hung lusterless down her back. A kindly woman, Barsud prayed that whatever demons ravished the lady's mind would depart and leave her in peace.

While she could understand Goldwyn's grief at losing her children, still she felt that the lady had much for which to live. In spite of the fact that Goldwyn had the temperament of an ill-humored she-camel, the woman had somehow found favor in the eyes of Esarhaddon uHuzziya, one of the richest and most powerful men in either Nurn or Harad. Reported to be enamored of her, the handsome Shakh surely planned to keep her for his own harem. "Why else would he lavish so much care and attention upon her... and allow her to behave as a spiteful, unruly child?" Barsud puzzled to herself.

Camp gossip had it that the woman experienced strange visions, dreams, and hallucinations while in the grip of bizarre, violent fits. Some even said she was a medium through which djinns made contact with the physical world. Barsud bit her lip as she felt a chill go down her spine. One never knew when such tales might be true, but in this case Barsud had never taken the stories seriously. No matter what others might say, she had no hesitation at all in serving the lady, for she pitied the woman. "Poor soul," Barsud thought, "to have so many miseries descend upon her, first losing her husband, and then having to leave her sons so they might have the opportunity to escape."

Far more disturbing than idle tales of visions and djinns was the information that Sang-mí had related shortly after she had returned to the tent of the prostitutes. Although there was no time to relate all the details, Sang-mí had intimated that there had been trouble between the two. Sobbing almost incoherently, the younger woman had confessed that she was afraid of the foreign lady - far more afraid for the sake of her baby than she was for herself. Though Sang-mí was genuinely worried, Barsud could hardly believe that the dazed and confused Goldwyn could pose any threat either to Sang-mí or her child. Barsud knew how incredibly cruel and wicked people could be, but she did not want to believe that any mother would harm a helpless baby. So wrapped up was Barsud in her ruminations that she did not hear the approaching hoof-beats of two horses.

Cantering his sorrel mare up the small rise, Tushratta drew ahead of his companion, a dark-skinned young man named Khaldun. The two men reined in their horses in front of the shelter and turned their mounts over to the waiting servants. His lean face flushed with exertion and the excitement of winning the small bet he had made with Khaldun, Tushratta slapped the younger man good-naturedly across the shoulders.

"That is a fine animal you have there, Khaldun," Tushratta remarked admiringly. "If the race had been longer, your gelding would surely have beaten my sorrel."

"You are most kind, Physician," Khaldun replied, a smile lighting up his swarthy face. "Sometimes it takes my steed a while to get into his stride, but then when he hits it, there are few animals that can keep up with him."

"Khaldun, we will race them again sometime," Tushratta told him. Smiling, the two men walked to the shelter, where Aziru waited to greet them.

"Welcome to my humble feast, Master Tushratta and Khaldun." Aziru touched his hand to his heart and inclined his head.

"Feast?" Tushratta exclaimed as he looked over the table. "Did you save any food for Khaldun and me, you little scoundrel, or have you eaten it all yourself?" He laughed jovially as he clasped Aziru by the shoulder.

"My esteemed guests, you will find there is a surfeit of everything," Aziru smiled. "You know I never withhold when it comes to a feast."

"Especially if it is one financed with my money, you weasel!"

When the laughing had died down, Aziru's expression turned serious as his eyes darted towards Goldwyn. "Good Master, I need to have a word with you, if you would care to go outside with me." He looked over to Khaldun. "Sit down, my young friend, and enjoy the meal. There are some matters of utmost importance that I must discuss with the Head Physician."

"Certainly, Physician. I shall be happily occupied here for a while." Khaldun inclined his head respectfully, his eyes lighting up when the servants placed a fresh bowl of hummus and a platter of flatbread on the table.

"Do not mind me, gentlemen." Goldwyn looked up at them, smiling sarcastically at the two physicians. "I am only another one of the insane foreign women on this caravan who are known for rambling to themselves. While the two of you discuss me in private, I will just sit here under your amazing pavilion and hope that a brisk wind does not come along. It looks like a storm is brewing."

The two physicians walked until they were out of hearing range of the others, and then Aziru halted. He lay his hand on Tushratta's forearm as he searched his eyes. "Tushratta, this arrangement is not working out! The woman argues with everything, and when she is not honing her sarcastic wit on me, she waits to stir up trouble. My friend, I feel as though I am trapped in a cage with a tigress!" The physician's assistant watched as Tushratta's dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Remember last night when she hurled herself upon you with a strength that was almost supernatural?" Aziru mopped his sweaty brow as the two men walked along the crest of the ridge. "For her sake and for ours, too, I strongly advise that she be kept in a perpetual state of light sedation!"

"Aziru, I am surprised at you." Tushratta looked at him with a mixture of pity and disapproval in his gaze. "You are making far too much of this. The lady woke up from a bad dream and was startled. She never meant to do any harm, I assure you."

"A bad dream?" Aziru remarked in disbelief. "She went after you like an agonized whore poisoned on cantharides!"

"Aziru, try to be a little more charitable. You misjudge her motives and exaggerate in your description of her behavior." Tushratta scowled at his assistant. "The lady Goldwyn is not a wild beast to be kept in chains, nor is she a lunatic to be kept sedated all the time! No cure can be effective if she becomes addicted to opiates!"

"Then, Tushratta, at least have one of the eunuchs ride in the wain - one of the brawny ones, I would suggest. I am concerned that she might go berserk and possibly attack Barsud. I do not think I could control her!" Embarrassed to make such an admission, Aziru dropped his eyes, his tawny skin flushing a deep red.

"Aziru, are you afraid of a woman? I can hardly believe that!" Tushratta scoffed, regarding his assistant with disbelief.

"Not quite that dramatic, Tushratta." Aziru looked a bit sheepish. "I can handle her most of the time, but we both know that madness can sometimes endow a sufferer with incredible strength." Aziru's eyes shifted, and he looked furtively back over his shoulder.

"Aziru, you are alarmed! I have never known you to have such a reaction to any patient. I must ponder upon these things." His head bowed, Tushratta clasped his hands behind his back and walked in silence for a while. When the two men reached a giant plane tree, the physician turned back to Aziru. "I realize that you feel there is something beyond the ordinary about this case, and sometimes I find myself agreeing with you. Where we differ is our mode of treatment. I will administer opiates only as a last resort!" As the men had been walking, the skies in the west had grown dark. Lightning flashed in the turbulent heavens and thunder rumbled loudly. "Do you want the woman to go through life in a poppy induced haze? I do not!"

"Tushratta, just a light sedative to calm her, surely you would agree to that!" Aziru looked desperate.

"No! This matter is settled! Now let us get back to the others. I have been waiting long enough to eat while I listened to your unreasonable demands!" Tushratta's strong, lean face, too grim to be considered handsome, was tense with irritation. Turning on his heel, he strode back towards the shelter, leaving Aziru gaping after him. "Aziru," Tushratta called back over his shoulder to his assistant, whose wheezing shamble was no match for his superior's long-legged stride, "disobey my orders and you might as well look for employment with another physician!"

The rain was falling steadily by the time the two physicians reached the site of the picnic. The scene was almost deserted, except for a few slaves who were frantically trying to salvage the pavilion and the remains of the feast. Down the hill, the men saw Barsud and two servants hastily shepherding Goldwyn back towards the road.

"Master Physician, there is Khaldun with your sorrel," Aziru commented, motioning with his hand to where the young man led Tushratta's horse from a small grove of junipers.

Nodding his thanks to Khaldun, the physician was quickly in the saddle, and, reaching down, he pulled Aziru up behind him. The hoods of their burnooses low over their faces, the three men rode down the hill into the blinding storm. When they reached the repaired wain, they were met by servant boys who took their horses. Soaked to the skin and eager to be rid of their wet clothing, the three men stripped to their sirwals and put on fresh garments from Tushratta's trunks before entering the wain.

A look of joy on her face, Barsud rose to her feet and bowed. "Masters, this humble servant was worried for your welfare! How I rejoice at your safe arrival!"

"We were in no danger of being swept away, I assure you." Tushratta smiled, and then the three men sat down on the bench across from the women.

Goldwyn eyed them coldly, resentful of their intrusion. "I see that the grave physician and his two lickspittle helpers are with us once more."

"Yes, my lady Goldwyn. I am sorry if we have disappointed you." Tushratta brushed her sour remarks off with a warm smile and a shrug of his shoulders. Then their eyes met, and he found they were soon locked in combat, her turquoise orbs sending volleys of pure hatred into his soft brown ones. The two fenced, vying with each other, thrusting and parrying. Though Goldwyn was the first to turn aside, why did the physician feel as though his heart had been dealt a searing wound?


	8. Chapter 8 - Cruel Teachers and Harsh Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Tushratta and his party caught up with the caravan shortly before it halted for the evening. The captives, who had plodded another wearisome two leagues that afternoon, were directed off the road and into a sprawling grove of beech and oaks. There they would rest for the night before the dawn summoned them once again to resume their arduous journey.

Plagued by manifold frustrations, Tushratta paused only briefly to give orders to the men before seeking the sanctuary of his own tent. The fact that he had spent almost two hours in the icy company of the lady Goldwyn had not helped his tranquility. No matter how he had tried to engage her in conversation, the lady steadfastly refused to acknowledge him with anything more than a brief, polite nod now and then.

After bidding the driver a good evening, Tushratta directed the women to go inside the tent while he talked outside with Aziru and Khaldun. Though as a rule the physician was not known for his gregariousness, he decided to invite Khaldun for supper. Khaldun, the young man whose gelding had almost defeated the physician's sorrel mare, accepted, promising that as soon as he had cared for his horse, he would return. Muttering that he was hopelessly late and needed to supervise the slave boys in preparing supper, Aziru excused himself. Goldwyn, weary from her journey, offered no objections when her handmaid Barsud suggested that she rest in the inner chamber of the tent before the evening meal was served.

The physician was glad for the quiet. He could think in the peace of his own mind without being bombarded by patients. After washing his face, beard, forearms and hands in a basin of water, Tushratta felt his spirits improving. From his traveling trunk, he took out a plain, unornamented beige caftan, very comfortable, though slightly worn. A small brown and beige cap upon his head and a pair of soft leather slippers on his feet, he looked forward to a simple meal and a game of chess later.

He sighed when he smelled the odors emanating from the serving dishes as Aziru, a broad smile upon his face, escorted the slave boys into the tent with another one of his overcooked, over-spiced meals. Already Tushratta felt the grinding pain beginning in his stomach, and without thinking, his hand went unconsciously to his middle. The evening had held such promise, and perhaps it would improve as it progressed. At least he could look forward to playing chess with Aziru and Khaldun, whom he had discovered had just learned the game. Now he had only to get through this meal. He would have much preferred a simple gruel, a little bread, and plain water.

While the boys were spreading the table with dishes, Khaldun appeared at the porch of the tent and was invited to join the two men. Tushratta complained to Aziru that the lentil soup had far too much garlic and ginger, and the couscous had a peculiar taste in addition to being overcooked and clumpy. Aziru apologized profusely, embarrassed that a visitor would have to taste his culinary mistakes. Tushratta, who prided himself upon being a good host, kept Khaldun entertained with a story about a one-legged dwarf whom he had once treated.

Tushratta sipped at his wine before making his first chess move of the evening. "He planned to be married, but was concerned about his abilities in the wedding chamber."

"I do not see how that would matter," Khaldun remarked as he studied the game.

"That is what I told the poor fellow." Tushratta moved the piece representing the Grand Vizier out on the board. "It is not your mangled leg that counts; it is the prowess of your third leg. Any woman will tell you that." Both men chuckled as they concentrated on the game for a while, and then Khaldun looked up from the board.

"Was she pretty?" He met the challenge of the Grand Vizier by moving his knight to block the piece.

"Her beard was longer than his! If that counts for beauty with those folks, I suppose she was quite lovely indeed." Tushratta frowned as Khaldun captured the Grand Vizier, a piece crucial to winning the game.

While Tushratta and Khaldun enjoyed a game of chess and superb wine, the captive women and children had far more serious matters upon their minds. Captivity had been harsh enough before, but after the failed escape attempt, the slaves had been subjected to such a grim discipline that all that they had endured before seemed as but a misty dream. The order had come down that, beginning with this day, the women were to march in coffle, eat in coffle, and sleep in coffle. The only times that they would not be linked together by chains would be three periods during the day - an all too brief span in the morning, another at midday, and a short stretch after suppertime. The only exception would be when they had to relieve themselves, and then they were unhitched and led off the road to answer the demands of over-stressed bowels and bladders. As soon as the captives relieved that necessary chore, they were escorted back to the line.

The strict changes had been imposed because a few of the slaves had dared to attempt escape. Now the many would learn that everyone must pay the price for the impertinence of a small number. The women and their children had experienced much during their march to the south. Suffering, humiliation, mistreatment, constant obscene references to their persons, the fear of whippings, and the knowledge that their fate rested in the hands of enemies - all these things had been endured. Now they were to learn what it truly meant to be a slave.

"You brought it on yourselves," the guards reminded the women and children as they waited in line for their supper rations. "Did you believe that we wanted to make you lovely things spend so much time in the chains?" one asked as his eyes roamed up a trim ankle, to a round set of shapely hips, and then to the high, firm breasts of a young maid. "Whatever happens now, you have only yourselves to blame!" The other guards sounded their agreement.

That evening, in the course of the regular rotation, it came the turn for the orc guards to be in charge of the captives while the Southrons took their ease. In addition to their mates, six brutish she-orcs were assigned to keep the slaves in line during the night. Clad in leather armor and animal pelts and armed to the teeth, the she-orcs were a fearsome sight to behold. As brutal and barbaric as the males were, these fiendish creatures were skilled in the art of administering torture, having been trained for this odious occupation in the Dark Tower. Always modifying old tortures and instituting new, even crueler ones, they took an especial delight in devising punishments which were both terrifying to contemplate and painful to endure, at times surpassing even their mates' cruelty.

That evening after supper, the slaves were ordered to assemble into two lines in the cleared area where the wains and baggage wagons were drawn up. Behind them, smirking and leering, stood a line of orc guards, spears clasped in their hands. Obediently kneeling before the guards were the slave women and their children, the chains attached to the women's collars dangling between their breasts. A crowd had gathered, the number swollen by a goodly number of off duty guards, wagoners, cooks and other workmen and slaves. These curiosity seekers had collected behind the guards to watch what they hoped would be a show, for word had gotten out around camp that there might be some excitement that evening. There was nothing like a spectacle to create a carnival air.

"Oo, have we a surprise for you tonight!" the female orc who had been taking roll announced as she finished counting. Marching between the two rows, she looked from right to left and slapped her thick-tressed leather flogger rhythmically against her palm. Slap, smack, slap, smack... the sounds thudded ominously in the captives' ears.

The great she-brute was called Durraiz and she was a hulking beast, her enormous, watermelon-like breasts almost threatening to rip apart her iron-studded leather brigadine. The modest Rohirric women could not help but blush at the sight of the deep valley of her cleavage and wonder if the genetic distance that separated them from the gross females was that very far. The leering orc guards clapped and cheered, enjoying the show and openly ogling the massive, jiggling breasts which were displayed so prominently by the low neckline of the brigadine. Occasionally Durraiz would make too strenuous a footstep, bouncing a dusky nipple over the top of the leather. Then, with a grunt and an obscene curse, Durraiz would grab the hairy aureole and shove the pap back under the leather.

Her gleaming black hair was parted in the center and pulled back in a bun which was so severe it seemed to make her eyes more slanted. The pale line of her part was as straight as a Númenórean road. Rising out of the sides of her broad head were long, pointed ears, revealing the Elvish ancestry of her race. A row of small silver rings rimmed both ears from cartilage to lobe, forming a glittering metal case around them.

Her leathery skin was salmon colored and mottled with black splotches, resembling a black and white dog which had been shorn of all its fur. Her large, crooked nose was pierced twice at the bridge by two thin pieces of metal which ran under the skin and terminated on either side with a small silver ball. Her large, beetling brows were perforated thrice each by three rings which sat close to the skin. Her thin lips were a sickening shade of purple, like a bruise. One of her long canine teeth had been knocked out and other teeth were partially broken. A gash, recently scabbed over, streaked across one of her cheeks. On one forearm was a vambrace of red and black dyed leather scales, and on the other forearm was one of plain boiled leather with a small sheath in which a dagger was lodged. Hanging from her belt was a sword. In personality and appearance, Durraiz was formidable, to say the least.

The orc looked savage enough, but her choice of jewelry made her appear quite primitive, though perhaps she was striving to seem more feminine. Around her neck were several cords upon which were strung human teeth, animal teeth, various coins, small pieces of colored glass and stone, tribal amulets and charms, and other such paraphernalia. About her waist was a similar cord, although the centerpiece of this ornamentation was the skull of a small animal, perhaps a cat, surrounded by large fangs and tinkling coins and chains.

Tight leather hose encased the monstrous globes of her buttocks, each haunch clearly outlined by the deep cleft between them. As the orc walked down the line, her protruding buttocks rose and fell, flopping and rubbing against each other. To outward appearances, the examination was just another routine evening inspection. In actuality, though, its purpose was to make a public spectacle, an example of the women who had attempted to escape or had aided in the escape.

Before the master slaver had departed to search for the runaway slaves, his instructions to the orcs had been necessarily hurried, more general than specific. To the orcs, who were used to dealing with absolute commands, the orders were ambiguous and confusing. The concept of how much actual torment they would be allowed to deal out to their victims was not all that clear in their minds.

Stopping suddenly, Durraiz turned around and pointed the end of her flail at a whey-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl. Ymma had been one of the first to escape that fateful night, but she had been quickly caught before she had gotten too far. Her eyes grew large with terror as the orc singled her out. The women and girls who had participated in the escape attempt were especially fearful of their captors, for they knew at any moment they could be the recipients of vengeance.

Swaggering over to her, the orc grabbed Ymma's hair and jerked her to her feet. Clamping a hairy, meaty paw under the unfortunate girl's chin, Durraiz stared into her eyes, exhaling her putrid breath into the unfortunate victim's face. "Wench, were you looking at my arse? I know you were, weren't you, girl? Do you think it's pretty?"

"No, no!" the terrified girl whimpered, wincing as the orc pulled her hair and dug her claws into her chin.

"I know yer kind! Scandalous and indecent! Yer thinkin' improper thoughts about me, I know it! You want to fondle me intimate parts... maybe even want to become me lover!" Durraiz' claws pushed deeper into the girl's skin, drawing blood. "Admit it! Confess! You'll feel better for confessin' yer guilt!"

"There is nothing to confess!" Ymma was close to hysteria. "I did not do anything! I swear I did nothing!"

"You were thinkin' evil thoughts! Disgusting habit in anyone, but especially in a girl yer age! You should be the model of chastity!"

The orc's burning yellow eyes and foul smelling mouth were mere inches from Ymma's face. "You want me to pull me leathers down and bend me over, don't you! You want to take yer pretty little hands and grope me beauteous haunches! Those nice, petite little hands and fingers, all white and delicate... fondlin' all over me hairy arse! Then after ye squeezed it, pinched it and played with it, ye would use a finger to reach in and plug me little brown bung hole! You filthy, dirty-minded girl! I'm shocked at such perverse thinking!"

Tears streaming down her face, her teeth chattering in fear, her knees knocking together, the girl was close to fainting. "Please! There is some mistake! I never looked at you!" Realizing what she had said, Ymma added, "Well, I looked at you, but not in that way!" Mortified more than she had ever been in at anytime in her life, the frightened girl felt that the scene around her was swirling.

"Ooo, so yer admittin' it now! You've been looking at me bum! I know yer kind, girlie! Yer a carnal little minx who fills yer mind with lewdness every hour of the day! Yer head is a stinkin' cesspool, overflowing with filth! Whenever ye get a chance, ye like to fondle the pouch between yer legs! You like taking yer fingers and playing with your mossy grove and stickin' them in yer love hole, don't you? Ooo, yer crude little mind likes to dredge up scenes of yer copulating with men, women, and maybe even me! You filthy little slut!"

"Never! Never! I would never think such vile thoughts!" Ymma shouted. The false accusations were too much for the innocent maiden to bear. Now totally beside herself, she was unable to utter anything but incoherent sounds. She wanted to scream as the orc held her chin at a painful angle and twisted her hair until she was sure it would be torn out at the roots.

"The little degenerate! She ain't fit to associate with polite society!" Durraiz howled in rage as she threw the girl to the ground and kicked her in the hip. "All right," she grated out as she turned around to the female orc behind her, "write this one's name and number down! She's got a sick mind and revels in unnatural fornication! She has to be reeducated so her mind will be purified!"

The women gasped and moaned in shock and terror, unbelieving the scene that they saw before them. The children, uncomprehending the implications of the orc's charges, looked at their mothers in confusion.

Durraiz swaggered down the line and suddenly halted once more. The huge she-orc liked to taunt her victims, letting them wonder who might be selected next. Her pupils expanding to large black pools, her bloodshot yellow eyes gleamed as though she were in the height of mating frenzy. Around and around she turned slowly in a circle, pointing her flail threateningly at the women.

"There's villainy and wrongdoing all about me! We uruks can smell it out! You can hide it from others, but you can't hide slimy doings from us!" Durraiz gasped. "Right over there!" she pounced, thrusting the dangling tresses of the flogger in Aeffe's face. "Yer just like the other one, ain't ye? Unnatural and immoral! You were one of the sneakin' little sluts who tried to escape! Led us poor uruks on a merry goose chase, you did, screamin' like some pallid elf wight! And added to your long list of other crimes, yer ungrateful, ain't ye? I got a report that you were complaining about the quality of food! I should have known it! Admit yer crimes and I'll go easier on ye!"

"If I said anything bad about the food, I am sorry!" Aeffe gulped out. "The other? I have never done anything improper!"

"That is what they all say!" The orc ran the dangling tresses of the flogger down over Aeffe's high, rounded bosom. Deeply embarrassed, the girl closed her eyes tightly, hoping that the indignity would be over soon.

"You little ingrate!" the orc snarled. "You got that sneaky look in your eyes, like a thief! Been pilfering', ain't' you, girl? Lifting everything you could get yer nimble fingers on? I'm going to have to search you to see what you got hidden in that rag yer wearing! Stand up, girlie!"

Fearfully, Aeffe rose to her feet, trying to keep her wits about her and control her trembling. "I have never stolen anything!" she stoutly maintained.

"Such pretty hair, girlie... so soft and fine... long like a horse's tail," Durraiz whispered in her ear as she lifted the leash which hung between the girl's breasts. Aeffe gnawed on her lower lip and shivered at the foul creature's touch. "Has a man ever had his pole inside you?" the orc hissed.

"N-no," Aeffe whimpered as the orc tugged her into the aisle between the two rows of slaves.

"Here, Bagalaam, hold this little wench while I search her!"

"Gladly, me lady," the other she-orc replied as she caught the end of the chain that Durraiz tossed to her. This second beauty was tall and skinny, a bag of bones held together by a pock-marked reptilian skin. While Durriaz was all brawn and bulk, Bagalaam was a scrawny thing with long, spindly arms. Her face was long and narrow; war paint streaked her cheeks like the stripes of a zebra; her nose was crooked and pierced through the septum by a small sliver of bone; above her lip was a silver ball pierced through her philtrum; and the skin around her chin had erupted with a conglomeration of pustules which oozed white pus. Her pointed ears sagged with the weight of all the golden earrings which pierced them. As though to compensate for the scrawniness of her body, her blonde-streaked brown hair was teased up high, half of it pulled into a tall ponytail which fanned out like the plume of a rooster's tail.

Bagalaam wore a black leather bustier spiked with metal studs. The revealing garment did little to enhance her pendulous sagging breasts, and its midriff length only showed the great rivulets of stretch marks which crawled over her stomach. About her neck and hanging between her elongated paps were necklaces of yellow fangs strung together on leather cords. On her shoulders, she wore massive pauldrons which seemed to serve little purpose other than being ornaments. A baldric in which was sheathed a dagger crossed diagonally over her clavicle to disappear under her hairy, reeking armpit. She wore a short leather skirt over which was another skirt made of leather strips, dagged and studded with iron rivets. Bound around that was the tattered hide of some spotted jungle cat from Far Harad. Topping it all was a weapon belt to which were strapped several daggers, for Bagalaam was ambidextrous and could fight with either hand. About her long, thickly muscled calves were animal hides which were cross-gartered around her boots.

With her long drooping ears and slanted feline-like green eyes, Bagalaam resembled the obscene offspring brought on by the union of a jungle cat and an uruk. As yet unpenetrated by a male, the lovely orcish virgin would be ready for breeding by the next full moon.

"Come 'ere girlie," Bagalaam grasped Aeffe's forearms, pulling her close to her front. Not only did the she-orc reek of sweat, but also a very cheap and pungent patchouli perfume. Durraiz came up behind Aeffe and slung her arms about her waist. Mumbling gutturally in some foul dialect, Durraiz ran her hands up and down the curves of Aeffe's body. The beast's talloned fingers lingered on the wide swell of the Rohirric girl's hips and pinched her through the thin material of her dress.

Many of the guards set up a clapping and cheering as the other four female orcs began to circle around the captive girl and her tormentors. One of the she-orcs held a crudely made drum in her hand and started to pound out a savage beat as her sisters began an obscene dance of lust, stroking and fondling themselves as they repeatedly thrust their pelvises forward and back. The uruks in the audience were visibly moved, and many a weapon rose robustly to the occasion.

"I really hate to do this to you, but I must," Durraiz whispered as her loathsome tongue darted out and licked Aeffe's earlobe. Gritting her teeth, Aeffe closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she was somewhere far, far away from these perverse monsters.

"If only Inbir were here," she thought desperately. "He would protect me from these fiends!"

As Bagalaam held Aeffe prisoner by her arms, Durraiz bent down and encased the trim ankles in her hands. Giving her attention to them for only a few moments, Durraiz slowly caressed the firm calves and moved up to knead the tapering thighs. Aeffe blushed in shame as the orc moved her hand under the hem of her dress and ran her clawed fingers over the curling hair on her mound. With her other hand, Durraiz pinched Aeffe's buttocks so hard that the girl gasped in pain.

"You brought this on yourself," Bagalaam whispered in Aeffe's face, pushing tightly against her, thrusting her molded paps against Aeffe's soft bosom. The Rohirric girl swayed between the two she-orcs, her body held closely between the them. Behind her, Durraiz slid her hands out from under Aeffe's skirts and gripped her by the arms. Bagalaam smiled a toothsome leer in Aeffe's face as she ran her meaty paws under the girl's skirt.

"You like this, don't you, girl?" Bagalaam hissed in her ear. "Makes you excited to have yer cunny felt, doesn't it? Yer feelin' the 'eat in yer belly, ain't you?" She slid a finger between the girl's lips of love and teased her tiny tongue.

"Oh, no! No!" Fainting, Aeffe sagged back against Durraiz.

The she-orcs slowly turned the unconscious girl around to the gaze of the slave women. The drummer was now beating furiously upon her drum and the dancers, throwing back their heads and shrieking out shrill ululations, twirled to the sides to allow the horrified captives to see Aeffe and her tormentors.

"Poor wench! She swooned because of all the guilt stored in her black heart! Was too much for her! She's going to have to get these vile perversions out of her twisted little brain and learn to be more grateful for all that she's got!" Durraiz exclaimed, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. "Discipline for these two! We'll have to beat the perversity out of the both of them!" As Durraiz grabbed Aeffe under the armpits and Bagalaam picked her up under the knees, two of the other she-orcs seized Ymma. One screaming and protesting and the other unconscious, the two girls were carried to a wain which had been drawn up nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: You can view portraits of the she-orcs Durraiz and Bagalaam on The Circles webpage at: http://circlesofpower.byethost22.com/thecircles/gallery.html


	9. Chapter 9 - The Lesson Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

As they watched the two girls taken away by the hated she-orcs, the remaining slave women set up an angry din of protest, shouting and shaking their fists. Behind them, the orcish guards whistled and hooted, twisted their fingers and hands into lewd gestures, or rubbed their crotches, grunting and laughing their approval of this cruel sport.

"No! They are innocent of any wrongdoing! They are all good girls of upstanding morals!" came the clear voice of Gode, a petite, slender woman whose sapphire blue eyes were filled with alarm. Her dark blonde hair was tied back with a scrap of blue material torn from her handkerchief. Her ragged garments fit her far more loosely than they had when she had begun the journey, for back then she had been a plump little wife. Now, like many of the others, she was a sad and haggard widow.

"No? Ooo, did I hear someone say 'no?'" Pausing, Durraiz jerked her head back, her eyes roaming over the row of captives. "Upstanding, wot? Sure they're up standing when any man lifts their skirts and gives it to 'em in the rear! Har har!"

"Ooo!" Bagalaam squealed, wiggling her bony hips. "Ooooo! There's another one of those strife an' troublemakers as wot don't want villains punished! Wot's we to do with 'er?"

"Seize 'er!" Durraiz screamed. "When 'er little white backside gets kissed with the lash, it'll drive all the wickedness out of 'er brains!"

Instantly, the two remaining orcs were upon the young woman, grabbing her, their rough hands pawing over her body. Gode fought against them, but their great strength quickly subdued her. After unchaining the struggling woman from the coffle, they dragged her to the wain.

"You monsters!" Gode screamed as the orcs ripped her dress from her body and flung the tattered shreds to the ground.

"Don't fight us, girlie!" one of the she-beasts hissed as her feral, leering eyes ogled the woman's body. "We're too strong for you!"

Turning the screaming woman to face the wagon wheel, the orcs shoved Gode to her knees. Stretching her arms wide apart, they bound her wrists to spokes on either side of the tall rim. In this position, Gode could not sink back on her haunches and deny her bottom to the hot, stinging touch of the whip. The wheel was covered with foul-smelling dirt and manure, and the hub pushed uncomfortably against Gode's stomach. Looking between the spokes, the frantic woman watched with dread as the nude Ymma was bound to a wheel on the opposite side of the wain. An unconscious Aeffe was revived by a pail of cold water thrown in her face. Snorting and sputtering, soon she, too, was stripped and tied across from Gode.

"Very wicked, lascivious girls must be held up as an example to the others!" Durraiz chortled evilly. She winked at the orc guards as they brandished their spears, goading the two lines of slave women forward to take positions on either side of the wain. Soon the guards had forced the women down on their knees, facing the bare backs of their bound comrades. Many of the women wept and moaned while others shouted in outrage or gazed stoically at the solemn scene. A low moan of grief and sorrow rose up and mingled with the coarse cheers and gibes of the guards, the tumult creating a bizarre cacophony of sound. In the din and confusion, a small dark-skinned slave boy slipped away unnoticed from the crowd.

"You wanton sluts and runaways, ingrates all of you, watch the torment of these wicked felons and learn from it! Maybe this will put an 'olesome fear and respect into yer schemin' 'earts!" Durraiz cackled, her voice rising and falling in a series of grunts and growls until the laughter culminated in an explosion of hiccuping snorts. Holding her sides at another onrush of mirth, she ordered one of the she-orcs, "Sulmûrz, fetch the switches!"

"Ooh, dearie, it will be me pleasure!" chortled an orc female standing close by. Her dark auburn hair proclaiming her mannish ancestry, she, out of all the other she-orcs, most resembled a woman. Swaggering to the back of the wain, she hesitated a few moments before unlatching the door.

Sulmûrz was highly aroused at the thoughts of the three Rohirric girls who were tied so helplessly to the wagon wheels. Relishing the thoughts of their nude, sensual bodies writhing as the lash struck them, she felt herself becoming wet. She longed to run her hand over her own hairy chestnut-colored crotch and slide a finger or two inside the moist, heated nook.

Once inside the wain, Sulmûrz clenched her thighs close together as though she held a male's engorged member deep inside her. She shut her eyes and moaned at the pleasurable friction caused by the subtle up and down movement of her hips. Sulmûrz closed her eyes and rubbed her thighs together more vigorously in this stimulating manner. "Oooo! Oooo! OOooh!" She gasped and swayed, catching the wall with her hand as she felt a rush of liquid ooze down her legs. "Oooohhh, Master Melkor, awesome and mighty, it makes playing with meself so much better if I pretend that it is Your grand black prick inside of me! Ohhhh," she groaned as another spasm of pleasure racked her body just at the thought of Grond, the majestic black mace of Melkor.

"Sulmûrz, what the hell is taking you so long in there?" Durraiz bellowed angrily.

"Feelin' a mite weak," she called back breathlessly. "Think it's the excitement!"

"Hurry up in there! We don't have all night for this!"

Unlike the other female orcs, who were clad mostly in leather and furs, Sulmûrz was dressed more plainly, or at least more like one of the Southrons or Easterlings. She wore a deep knee-length scarlet tunic whose deeply slitted neckline was adorned with a large band of black and another of gold. Over that was a short-sleeved, hip-length padded vest of heavy brown cloth which had a castelleted hem. On her arms were leather braces. She wore baggy tan trousers which had been stitched with thin red bands, creating a fishnet pattern. Her trousers were held close to her ankles by drawstrings and on her feet were lace-up leather shoes.

Hanging about her neck was the only piece of jewelry which she wore, a heavy necklace composed of pewter beads interspersed by unpolished chunks of semiprecious stones - aventurine for luck, rhodochrosite for love, and orange jasper for protection. A large circular amulet hung from the necklace. Arranged in the center of the circle were larger chunks of the three stones, surrounded by arcane designs which rose up out of the metal. Hanging from the amulet was a semicircular row of small pewter balls suspended by chains. The slightest movement would set them in action, causing them to clash against each other and tinkle like tiny bells. As did many others, both orc and man, who possessed such talismanic jewelry, she believed that the stones had magical powers and that the noise of the metal balls would drive away evil spirits.

Her body flushed and tingling, the scent of warm feral musk strong about her, the hot, milky she-juices running down her thighs, Sulmûrz picked up an oaken tub, its sides rimmed with two rows of iron. The container was partially filled with water and held four bundles of thin hazel branches. Four feet long, tied tightly together near the butt end and supported in the middle by cord, the branches were frosted with gray and stippled with pale speckles and streaks of green where secondary branches and twigs had been cut off. Light and springy, the switches clattered against each other as Sulmûrz carried the tub down the steps and then placed the pail close to Durraiz and Bagalaam.

"Clever little things, ain't they?" chortled Durraiz as she took one of the bundles from the tub. "Here, you, Bagalaam, yer in charge of chastising the one called Gode. Sulmûrz, you put the fear into Ymma's rump! I'll take Aeffe! Red-headed girls are so fiery and fun to whip!" Laughing, she reached out a hand and touched Sulmûrz' auburn mane. Sulmûrz giggled and batted her eyelashes coquettishly. "Now let's get to it, dearies, and lay the switches on until the steam rolls off their arses!"

Cackling gleefully, their eyes glowing with unbridled lust, Durriaz, Bagalaam and Sulmûrz marched to the bound prisoners, smacking the springy switches upon their palms. While they went to their diabolical work, the other three orcs strutted up and down the two lines of slaves.

"How many lashes, Durraiz?" yelled Bagalaam. "How many are these recalcitrant tarts to have slapped on their lazy, pampered backsides?"

"Twelve and not one less! Heat them up slowly and let each stroke be a cherished memory!" Durraiz chuckled maliciously.

Aeffe looked over her shoulder, her eyes stricken with terror as the monstrous Durraiz approached her. Kneeling beside the girl, the she-orc noisily sucked Aeffe's earlobe into her mouth while she lightly raked her claws down her back, causing the girl to shiver in both fear and disgust.

"Yer a pretty little wench, and I hate to do this to you, but yer deviltry has forced it upon me! While I won't spare you one stroke, I'll tell how you can make it easier on yourself." She leaned closer, whispering in the horrified girl's ear. The brute caressed over the curve of Aeffe's buttocks and tickled over the girl's love pouch with her finger.

"You hateful, loathsome creature!" Aeffe cried out, sobbing and pressing closer to the hub. "That is the foulest thing I have ever heard in my life!"

"When the switches come down on yer pretty little buttocks and the pain is runnin' over ye in hot waves, just remember I tried to help you!"

Aeffe heard the orc's laughter, then the swish of the hazel branches as they soared downward. When the switch slapped over her rear, the sounds of both the thwack of the branches and her wild, piercing scream came simultaneously. The girl's body arched convulsively, jerking at the sudden pain that seared across her bottom.

"Do not clench your hip muscles like that, dearie! Just relax, thrust your bottom out and it won't hurt so much! Let me see yer little rosy as I whip ye!"

As Durriaz drew back her hand again and lashed across Aeffe's reddening flanks, Bagalaam slapped her bundle across Gode and Sulmûrz punished Ymma. Working in unison, the she-beasts brought the bundles down over their victims' bottoms, the switches crossing over the first stripes, drawing tiny drops of ruby at each juncture.

"I 'ere that one stroke of an 'azel bundle is equal to four strokes of a birch cane. They'll be screamin' for the bleedin' birch soon enough! Ai!" Bagalaam snickered.

"You ugly heathen witches! Stop this unholy torture!" bellowed out a voice in the crowd. It was the mother of Gyrth, the little boy who had been treated for a broken finger and a carbuncle on his neck by the physician Tushratta just two days before.

"Another mischief maker 'as been found amongst us! Ain't there no end to these conspirators 'oo raise their foul voices against justice! Venal dealers in lechery, all of them! Blimey! They'll pay for their wickedness!" screamed out a grotesquely obese she-orc who had been stalking up and down the line of women on Ymma's side of the wain.

The she-orc had the face of a pig, concave, her features looking as though they had been pressed deep into her face like dates into a lump of dough. Her protruding eyebrows were wild and hairy, her eyes narrow and squinty, her nose flattened and squashed, and her ruddy lips were thick and bulbous. Upon her chin was a tuft of dark hair, much like a goat's whiskers, and several other chins cascaded down her flabby neck. Numerous moles and warts flourished in abundance upon her face, and from the crest of each one rose a dark hair or two.

Her beady black eyes had scanned for those who had been prominent supporters of the escape attempt or who had fought the most against the orcs when they were recaptured. After all, there was a vacant wheel which could hold another malefactor...

Flauthkulot was her name, the "Feather Pillow." Her mate had named her that because, after copulating, he liked to rest his body upon the great quantities of pillow-like flesh which encased her frame. When in the grip of passion and his belly had gone down to meet hers, it was as though he had fallen onto a giant lump of soft, warm dough.

Now, though, her ponderous girth had been shoved into ridiculously tiny and horribly unpractical leather armor, if armor it could truly be called. Indeed, there were spiked and studded vambraces of scale upon her forearms and spiked pauldrons of almost elephantine proportions upon her shoulders, but the vastness of her body was poorly protected against any real threats. Her enormous breasts had been pushed into an absurdly skimpy breast band of black studded leather. The construction of the minuscule garment must have been quite remarkable, for it seemed as though at any moment her huge paps would cause the band to split asunder.

Her ponderous, hairy belly hung over a slight black girdle, identical in construction and design to the breast band. Running between her legs and up the crack of her hairy, pimple-covered rump was a strap of leather which barely concealed her intimate parts. Tufts of dark hair, which had as their origin her ruddy deep valley of love, hung out obscenely over the sides.

In contrast to the massive girth of her body, she had tiny, delicate feet which looked all the more dainty in her thigh-high black leather boots. Combined with the short cape which was clasped about her neck with a pewter skull-shaped frog, the boots gave her a rather jaunty, cavalier appearance. As she pranced, she tossed back her coarse, curly black hair over her shoulder in a gesture of sublime arrogance.

Lumbering towards Gyrth's mother, Flauthkulot squatted down in front of the tall, pinch-faced woman, who stared unflinchingly back at her. His eyes bulging, his face pale and stricken, Gyrth wailed in fear and soon felt warm urine run down his breeches leg. "Módor!" he cried out in terror.

"Wot's yer name, woman?" Flauthkulot smiled into her face, revealing an amazingly sparkling set of perfect fangs, a gift of the mannish blood which flowed in her veins. Considering the whiteness of the pearls, one of her ancestors must have been an Easterling.

"Wihtfled, you filthy scum!" the woman spat out.

Bellowing out a rollicking garlic-flavored laugh in the woman's face, the she-orc tore off the cream colored kerchief that bound the woman's hair and tied it around her own curly mane. She smiled as the golden tresses spilled over the woman's shoulders. Grabbing her hair at the nape of her neck, the orc pulled Wihtfled's face close. "Yer a pretty faced tart! And yer tits and arse ain't bad either! Ye can lie betwixt me tits and warm me bed while me man's away! And when 'e's 'ome, both of us can share ye!"

"How dare you, you filthy-tongued beast!" the indignant woman screamed as she slapped Flauthkulot across the face. Laughing, Flauthkulot gave Wihtfled's chin a tap with her meaty hand, causing sparkling stars to whirl around the woman's head.

"Oooo, yer a spirited one, ain't ye? Me man and I'll 'ave some fun with ye! You'll like it, too, when 'e pierces yer second maidenhead, if it ain't been plundered already!" Flauthkulot squealed as she grabbed the woman's buttocks and dug her fingers into the valley between the two cheeks.

The gangling boy beside the woman screamed and drew back from the orc. "Módor!" he cried again, tears welling up under his eyelids and spilling down his cheeks.

"Gyrth, be quiet!" Wihtfled ordered between clenched teeth as she touched her painful jaw, which was hot and beginning to swell.

"Yer a troublemaker, ain't ye, lass?" The orc unlocked her from the line and gave her hair another jerk. "We know how to deal with ones of yer stripe! Pain cures that ill! That's the best medicine for those who stir up discord! Now come along and be quick about it!" Standing up, the she-orc dragged the woman to her feet. A shrieking Gryth was held back by two of the orc guards. The slave women muttered angrily, some rising to their feet in protest only to be shoved back to their knees by the guards behind them.

"There will be order here!" the guards cried out. "Down on your bellies!" Those women who refused were slammed face down to the ground.

"Halt the punishment!" ordered Durraiz. "We'll wait until this one joins 'er friends at our little party!"

Lashing out with her fists at a laughing Flauthkulot's face, Wihtfled felt the powerful, sweaty arms of another reeking she-orc lifting her under her armpits. Flauthkulot picked her up by the knees, and together the two orcs carried the struggling woman to the free wheel of the wain. Soon, she, too, was stripped and bound to the wheel.

Durraiz, smirking and snickering, called out, "This one is laggin' behind the other three on her due punishment! Kiss her backside twice with the 'azel and she'll be up with the other three wenches!"

"I am not afraid of anything you can do!" Wihtfled looked over her shoulder and glared at her tormentors.

"Ooo! Ooo! She wants it! She needs it! She craves it! She loves the sighing caress of the gentle 'azel! 'Ow I want to see 'er blushing bum after 'er fine moons 'ave been loved by the whip!" Flauthkulot grinned as she drew back her hand and then lashed the hazels across the woman's unmarred buttocks. Thrown forward by the force, Wihtfled bit down on her lip and tongue as she crashed against the round hub of the wheel. Spitting out blood, Wihtfled grasped the rim and clung to the metal. As Flauthkulot laid the second searing lash across her rump, the switches crossed over the first heated streaks and raised up bloody welts where they intersected.

"Dearies!" Durraiz shouted. "Can't you whip these wenches any harder? Those first two lashes were pathetic! Harder this time! We have many more to go! Make 'em feel as though a purifying fire has been kindled and is righteously burnin' in every weal!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:  
> NOTE: You can view portraits of the she-orcs Durraiz and Bagalaam on The Circles webpage at: http://circlesofpower.byethost22.com/thecircles/gallery.html


	10. Chapter 10 - The Flagellants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last wain in the slaver's caravan crosses the Anduin, the fate of the captives is sealed. At the mercy of her enemies and the delusions of her own mind, Goldwyn resolves to kindle her hatred into a burning passion, even if it means spurning those who might truly care for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 3254 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Hibiz raced through the camp, almost colliding with guards and other servants. After nearly crashing into a swaggering guard who had drunk far too much, the boy heard the man's fiery curses behind him as he ran on down the row of tents. When he was admitted to Tushratta's tent, Hibiz fell face down on the straw-covered ground. "Master, forgive a wretched slave for this rude interruption!" he gasped out.

"Rise, boy. You know such elaborate obeisances do not bring joy to my heart." Barely looking up from the cloth chessboard spread on the table in front of him, Tushratta studied the position of his pieces before moving his grand vizier. A smile of triumph on his lips, he calmly gazed across the table at Aziru.

"Master Physician, are you sure you want to make that move?" Aziru asked innocently, his eyebrows cocked in a quizzical expression.

"Certainly. Why would I not?"

"Because of this," Aziru smugly replied as he picked up his knight and moved it two squares vertically and one square horizontally, capturing the physician's fortress in the process. "Master Tushratta, I am two pieces up on you. Would you like to concede?"

"How did you do that?" Dumbfounded, Tushratta stroked his beard and gazed at the board. "I do not understand how I missed that move, and I am a Mutaqaribat, Second Level Player, and you, Aziru, are only Third!"

Hibiz coughed politely, his trembling hands clasped respectfully across his middle. "Master, please allow me to speak!"

Tushratta gazed at the board as though he suspected some great treason had been committed. Then, shaking his head, he replied, "Aye, aye, Aziru, I concede. Put the pieces away in their chest." Looking to Hibiz, he asked, "What is it, boy?"

"A terrible thing, Master!" he gasped. "The she-orcs have gone berserk and are whipping the slave women without mercy! All of the poor wretches are bleeding from the lashes, and two have fainted!" He gulped for air, his heart pounding in his chest. "Many have been the beatings which I have witnessed in my life, but none so severe as this!" Of course, the boy was exaggerating in his description of the switching. Hibiz was a kind-hearted soul, though, who grieved when he found a small animal or bird that had died, and buried them in small graves with great ceremony. The other slave boys regarded him skeptically, but Hibiz met their taunts with an angry face and swift fists. While his kind sympathies were easily swayed by gentle creatures, the slave boy hated the monstrous orcs, whom he referred to behind their backs as "the apes."

"What!" Tushratta exclaimed incredulously as he rolled to his knees and was soon on his feet.

"Aye, Master, it is as I say! I wager they have been into their strong draught, perhaps even kapudri! Maybe they have pilfered some of the medical supplies. But, Master, this poor slave boy would not lie! The orcs have gone mad!" As he had been taught, Hibiz kept his eyes averted while he excitedly told the tale.

"Hibiz, fetch my burnoose," Tushratta commanded through tight lips. Walking over to the gong by the tent doorway, the physician struck the alarm three times, and three fierce-looking guards rushed through the opening. An expression of apprehension on their faces, the men bowed in respect and waited to see why they had been called.

"Buhur! Have you and your men been drunk or frisking with the camp followers? Hibiz has reported that the she-orcs are lashing some slave women unmercifully!" Tushratta asked in his calm, unemotional voice as Hibiz assisted him into his burnoose.

"Shakh, what do you mean? The camp is quiet. The only thing going on this evening is a little disciplining of the slave women." Buhur's brow furrowed in confusion.

"A little disciplining is one matter, but savage beatings are quite another! The master slaver will be enraged if any of his property is damaged! You and your men will follow me! Aziru," he looked back at his assistant, "you are coming, too! Some of these women might be badly injured! Bring my medical case! The Gods only know what those fiends have done! These half-breeds should all be whipped and then dismissed! I would have preferred that they had never been employed in the first place. Animals cannot be trusted to do the work of men!"

With those stern words, Tushratta turned on his heel and strode out the tent. The guards and Hibiz followed closely behind him. Aziru lagged behind, scurrying to catch up as he tossed a robe over his shoulders and repositioned his green skullcap over his balding pate.

***

The bundles of switches rose and fell as the sun slowly sank and dusk gathered over the land. Their faces to the ground, the two rows of slave women cringed as they heard the slap of each bundle of switches as they fell across the tortured flesh of their sisters in slavery. Their passions aroused at the sight of switches landing on bare, quivering bottoms, the Southern guards gritted their teeth and looked straight ahead. They tried to appease the stressful bulges in their breeches by thinking of how they would later use their hands to relieve their aching members or take their pleasure with the camp prostitutes.

"Twelve!" Durraiz cried as she brought the hazel switches down over Aeffe's smarting, blood speckled rump for the last time. "You shouldn't have wiggled and thrashed so much, girlie! You ought to have kept yer sweet cheeks thrust out so I could have hit 'em squarely!"

The four she-orcs stepped back and surveyed their work, smiling as the women sobbed. "Four beet-red bottoms!" Bagalaam sighed in satisfaction as she lightly rubbed the switches over Gode's seared buttocks. "Dearies, did you ever see anything so sweet as a scored and glistening arse!"

"Nothin', nothin' is sweeter... unless it is two scored and glistening arses!" Her eyes closed, Sulmûrz panted as she tossed aside the hazel switches. "There is nothing wot delights me eyes so much as the bleedin' cheeks of a chastised tart! And, ooohhh, the melody of the swishin' of the 'azels is like the gentle music that Luthien's flogger made when she flailed the black blood out of Melkor's 'oly bum that night in Angband!"

"OOo! OOo! Tell us the tale!" cried out Bagalaam. "I ain't never 'eard that one!"

"Well, dearie, the old legends say she and 'er man went to Angband to steal the Silmarils from Melkor's iron crown. She did one of those magic fairy dances for 'Is 'Oliness, but 'E weren't none too impressed with 'er until she offered 'er services as a flagellant. Then the Mighty One got down on 'Is knees and begged 'er to flog 'Im. She agreed and then she went to work whippin' 'Im, 'er right arm raisin' and lowerin' in the air until she got tired, and then she switched to the left! When she wore out one whip, she picked up another! She beat 'Im until 'E 'owled in pleasure, twitchin' and squirmin'! And then 'Is ponderous black tool shot out a fulsome load of divine seed and the foundations of Angband shook with 'Is pleasure!

"But then while 'E was out as cold as a dead fish, the treacherous elf took one of 'Is silmarils! She would have taken all three, but 'er man 'ad gotten so 'eated up at seein' the whippin' of the Mighty One, that nothing would satisfy 'is lively lust until she flailed the daylights out of 'im! The sound of Beren's moanin' and screamin' as she blistered the blood out of 'is 'indquarters was so loud that it woke Master Melkor out of 'Is slumber, and 'E was bloody angry at the stealin' of 'Is silmaril! Then the two thieves 'ad to get out of there quick, Luthien wearin' naught but 'er leather corset, and Beren as naked as the day 'e was born! And that's 'ow Luthien made off with Melkor's crown jewels!"

Bagalaam howled in laughter and slapped her thigh. "That's a good one, dearie!"

Sulmûrz wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and then spoke up. "These sinful wenches 'ere are truly lucky, cos we ain't chargin' 'em nothin' for our tender lovin' care!" She smiled impishly. "And 'cos we've all got a bit o' elf in us, we she-orcs consider it a matter of honor to follow in the finest of the grand old tradition of our kinswoman, Luthien! We whip the best of any of our noble kind and won't stop the scorgin' and strappin' until we keel over with exhaustion!"

Cocking her head to the side, Durraiz chuckled mischievously. "You know the elves never tell the truth about the time the Mighty One met Luthien. The tale that Sulmûrz told just drips with the truth, and I know in my heart that it is the only reliable account!"

Flauthkulot could barely contain her excitement, and her ponderous girth wiggled like jelly in a crockery jar. "Durraiz, me love, I'm so inspired by this tale that I want to lash the wenches twelve more times! Couldn't we whip 'em some more? Please? Just a wee tap or two? The bundles are still good, scarcely splintered at all. There is plenty left 'ere. Couldn't we wear the 'azel switches out on the wenches?" The elephantine beauty pouted petulantly, pushing her jaw forward, causing her two bottom tusks to extend over her upper lip, much resembling a bulldog.

"No!" Durraiz barked. "Twelve is what I ordered, and twelve is what it will be! If I hear any more of yer harpin' and carpin', I'll wear a few of those bundles out on you!"

"Oooo!" Flauthkulot wiggled her ponderous rump in excitement. "Would you? Would you? Please! I'd give anything - anything at all - just to be beaten soundly by you! You can do it better of any of the others! Ooohh, if you promise me ye will, I'll get down on me knees and treat ye like the sacred goddess ye are! Please, Mistress, please!!"

"Work before pleasure, work before pleasure, I always say, dearie!" Durraiz chuckled in spite of herself. "The dispensing of discipline comes first, and then as an act of charitable mercy, we must clean these poor wayward women's wounds! Sulmûrz, fetch the salt!"

"Ohhh yes!" Sulmûrz moaned, her body bucking involuntarily in the throes of passion. Fetid moisture dripping down her thighs, the she-orc staggered away to the wain and soon returned with a earthenware basin of dampened salt.

"Sulmûrz, you bring the basin and come along with me! The rest of you stand back!" Durraiz ordered as she walked towards Aeffe. "I'm in command here, and besides, I know more about how to do this than any of you!"

"Durraiz!" Bagalaam grumbled. "Wot's to know about rubbin' salt on someone's bum? Just take an 'andful and smack it on 'em and rub it deep!"

"Silence! Not another word out of you, Bagalaam!" Durraiz dipped her meaty paw into the basin of salt and smeared the damp mixture over Aeffe's raw, bleeding back, buttocks and thighs. "Nurnian salt - the best there is!" This new pain was more than Aeffe could bear, and throwing back her head and shrieking in agony, she sagged against the ropes in a swoon.

"Oooo!" Sulmûrz squealed, shaking her bottom and causing her necklace to tinkle. "Oooo! Look who's coming! If it ain't the physician 'imself! But, awww, he's too late for the fun!"

Turning her head to the right, Durraiz' eyes followed along the long line of slave women. The Southern guards had jerked their bodies to attention and were saluting. "That means trouble," Durraiz muttered out of the side of her mouth.

And indeed there was trouble headed in their direction. Though his expression was composed, almost indifferent, the physician's eyes blazed with anger. As he strode between the two rows of women, he signaled for more guards to join Buhur and follow him.

The six female orcs glanced around wildly, but seeing that they were outnumbered, they fell to the ground, bowing before Tushratta as he reached them.

"Oh, Master," Durraiz simpered as she kept her head inclined, "you'll be right pleased with what was done here this evening!"

"I am not pleased," the physician replied icily. "If any of these women have been permanently scarred because of this torture, I will see that all of you lose your right hands and your employment!" Turning to the guards behind him, Tushratta ordered, "Men, cut those women down immediately! Aziru, examine them!"

"Wot?!" Durraiz asked incredulously. "I thought we would leave them tied here overnight! The lesson would stay with them a lot longer that way!"

Ignoring the orc's protests, Tushratta turned his attention to Aziru, who was in the process of examining Aeffe's scored and bleeding buttocks. "What mischief has been done, Aziru?"

"They will not be sitting down anytime soon," Aziru remarked as an exploratory finger brought a squeal of pain from Aeffe, who had recovered from her faint. "The wounds are painful, but should not mar these lovely backsides forever. The stripes have already been salted. Let them put on their garments and send them back with the others."

"What about us, Master?" Durraiz shifted her position and looked up at the tall physician. "We did the best we could!"

"Durraiz, certainly you did your very best." Tushratta smiled benevolently. "I think all six of you should be appropriately rewarded for your labors here this evening."

"Oooo! We really laid it on 'em, Master!" Durraiz simpered. "What are we going to get for it?"

"Twenty stripes each." Tushratta grinned.

Her mouth dropping open, Durraiz gaped at him in disbelief. "What kind of reward is that? You can't do that! You don't have the authority!"

"No?" The physician's eyebrows raised. "Watch and see." Tushratta stepped aside as the guards rushed forward and surrounded the disbelieving orcs.

Her eyes rolling in her head at the sight of drawn spears and scimitars, Durraiz began to sweat. "Master physician," she looked up at him pleadingly, "aren't you being a little harsh on us? We are only trying to do our duty as we have been ordered to do! The master slaver told us to teach 'em a lesson for escaping! Maybe we got a little carried away, but we meant no harm!" Her voice trembled. "We gave them only twelve lashes and then saw to their weals! They'll be sore for a few days but when their welts heal, they'll be as good as new! The assistant doctor says so!"

"Durraiz, you and your friends can think about it while the guards punish you. Men, take their weapons and then tie them to the trees at the edge of the camp! Give them twenty lashes each and spare not a one of them!"

"Aye, Physician. I promise you we will lay it on to them." Buhur and his rogues smiled as they prodded the twitching orcs to their feet. As they were herded towards the trees by the guards, Bagalaam and Flauthkulot whispered to each other.

"Ooo, lovey," Flauthkulot gushed, "me belly's gettin' 'ot already, and I'm feelin' a tinglin' between me legs! One little touch and I'll soak me leathers! I've never been whipped by a Southron before! I 'ere they like to give it to their women 'ard, fast and vigorously!"

Bagalaam moaned and shook her hindquarters. "I 'aven't been this excited since me old dad stripped me naked, strapped me down over a log and blistered me arse with 'is flogger! Soon we'll all be 'umpin' the trees as those 'andsome men kiss our backsides with Southern fire! Oooo! I can 'ardly wait!" Giggling, Bagalaam twitched again as her body convulsed in a spasm of ecstasy. "I 'ope they rape us! It'll be me first time, and not every she-orc can say 'er maiden'ead was taken by one of the 'ot-blooded Southrons!"

***

As the two physicians walked back to their tent, Tushratta was silent. Clasping his hands behind his back, the doctor was deep in thought. Finally he broke the silence. "After that, I could use a goblet of wine."

Aziru sighed deeply, a pensive look upon his face. "After beholding so many delectable blossoming flowers spread open in full pink bloom, it is not a goblet of wine that will quench my desperate thirst. Only the heady wine of love will sate me! It would take all five of the delightful fallen goddesses of passion to satisfy me tonight!"

"Do you forget, my friend? Tonight is your turn to be on duty should any injuries be reported in the camp," Tushratta chuckled congenially. "Who knows? Some zealous flagellant might strain a muscle in his excitement!"

"Tushratta," Aziru groaned, "you have snatched me from the arms of the houris in the realms of perpetual bliss and cast me back down to earth's misery!"

"To assuage your grief, Aziru, I will give you leave to read my priceless volume of medicine written by the greatest ashipus of Bablon."

"I would rather explore the mysteries written on the trembling houris' bodies as they sigh and whimper beneath me! And you, Master Physician, will you seek the altar of passion's ecstasy?" Aziru shook his head. "How I envy your night of freedom!"

"Nay, Aziru. First I will take my supper, and then I must attend to my journal," the physician replied. "There is much I must write upon its pages."

"What a waste of a night meant for enchantment!" Aziru lifted his palms upward as though imploring the gods to have mercy upon him.

"After perusing my journal, I think I shall enjoy a restful night of slumber upon my couch," Tushratta remarked good-naturedly.

"May the gods be gracious to you and strike you with sense, for you, my friend, are devoid of any!" Aziru grumbled.

"Perhaps a game of chess before you see the patients will cheer you up."

Aziru sighed in misery, but Tushratta only smiled and clapped him on the back as the two men passed the guards at the doorway and walked into the tent.


	11. The Juice Harp

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Dusk fell upon the land of Anórien, and the shadows of the Drúedain Forest deepened. As they traveled along the eaves of the wood, Tarlanc grew increasingly fearful, listening intently for the first tell-tale drumbeat of the Wild Men. When the forest remained quiet, he breathed more easily. The old miller could not help being apprehensive, for he had grown up hearing tales of the Wild Men and their deadly poison-tipped arrows. He would do nothing to alarm the sisters, though, and so he told them nothing of the stories surrounding this elusive people. The girls were in a perilous enough situation as it was, and they needed no frightening tales that might unsettle them even more.

The elation he had felt when he resolved to lead the sisters away from Ivrenlaer was rapidly fading away. Thoughts of the unknown dangers that might lie before them and the ever-present threat of being overtaken by their pursuers added to the growing sense of despair that had been steadily creeping over him. Though he would no longer suffer the bitter sting of humiliation at the knowledge that he was considered as nothing but a cowardly worm, at least he had been safe under the tyranny of the Easterlings. He had done more than well through the largess of their general, never having to worry about starvation, and often having the pleasure of being gifted with an occasional bottle of the finest Eastern wine. Now, though, he was just as wanted as the sisters, and if he were captured, the penalty for him would be death. Tarlanc kept his gloomy thoughts to himself, even managing to joke as they set up their camp.

With the coming of night, the melancholy returned. This was Midsummer Eve, and there would be no brightly burning bonfires to celebrate the night of magic. The old miller did not dare to light a small campfire, for even an humble blaze might be seen or smelled by their pursuers. The only allowance that Tarlanc would make for a light of any kind was the candle lantern which he had lighted and set on a nearby rock.

As he stared mournfully into the flickering flame, he thought, "What is Midsummer Eve without the feasting, the merrymaking and revelry, the stealing of kisses from pretty maidens, the wink as a furtive hand gropes down a bodice, and the knowing smiles as lovers steal away among the trees? Even an old man can feel young again on such a night when the fires glow brightly! But there will be no blaze tonight to drive away the shadows, no merry tunes to quicken the heart, and no deceiving myself that I am young again. What am I but a foolish old man?"

Instead of a feast, the three had eaten a frugal supper of salted beef, which was stringy but filling; bread which was almost too dry to eat; and sour pickles which had been processed by Tarlanc himself last autumn. Their supper was washed down by Elf's Ale, which the old miller had told the sisters was a common expression for the life-giving liquid. "Better than calling it plain old water, do you not think?" Tarlanc had asked them mischievously.

Even though Tarlanc always insisted that they be attended to before their riders had eaten so much as a bite, the horses had not fared much better than their human companions. Accustomed to eating hay in their stalls, they had been put on scant rations of only oats, and both their bodies and spirits missed the abundant provender. Their halter lines secured to iron pegs driven into the ground, they tugged at their ropes, pawing to show their displeasure. Perhaps they wondered why their kind master no longer provided for them as he once had. "Poor beasts," Tarlanc muttered under his breath, "they do not understand why there is no grass upon the ground."

The old man and his two young companions had made themselves as comfortable as they could on oilskins and blankets. Once again, the old miller had brought out a wineskin, to "bring a little comfort," as he called it, and the three of them passed the wineskin amongst themselves as they gazed into the candle. For a while, none of them spoke, and the only sounds were the soft noises of the horses and Haun's noisy panting. Tarlanc sighed, cupping his hand over the bowl of his pipe as he lit the weed with a pine splinter.

"At least we have wine," he chuckled ruefully, but his heart was not in his words. "I know, lasses, we have little with which to celebrate Midsummer Eve. Perhaps I can think of a tale or two to help us pass the hours." He brightened a little at that thought, but the sisters could tell from his voice that his heart was heavy.

"Oh, sir, we forgot to tell you, but today is our birthday," Elffled spoke up, attempting to lighten the gloomy mood which had settled over the camp.

"Your birthday, lass!" His face lit up, and he puffed his pipe with new vigor, sending up a rapid succession of smoky gray puffs, mixed with flaming red embers. "When you are old, no one much pays attention to your birthday, but when you are young, birthdays are always cause for celebration. Why did you not tell me sooner?" he asked, disappointment thick in his voice.

"We have known you only two days, sir," Elffled giggled, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.

"Ah, lass, what an old fool I am! What a silly question to ask! But as foolish I am, I know better than to ask a lady her age," Tarlanc chuckled.

Elffled smiled to herself; sometimes this old man acted as flustered and bashful as any youth. "Perhaps older ladies might be insulted if you inquired of their age, but I do not feel any chagrin at telling you that we have just turned fourteen. Though I do not know about my sister," she glanced mischievously to Elfhild, who glared back at her, "I feel quite grown up."

"I am just as grown up as you are, Elffled!" she shot back.

"Now, lasses, you must not argue between yourselves!" His eyebrows almost touched as he scowled at them, shaking his head. "So young," he murmured, his expression softening. "Just the age I was when my father gave me the soundest trouncing of my life! I can still hear his words as he took the strap to me." The touch of a smile edged up the corners of his mouth.

Elffled gave him a playfully skeptic look. "What did you do to get into so much trouble?" Ignoring Elfhild's still-frowning face, she tilted her head to the side as she attentively listened to the old miller. Anymore it seemed that the two sisters argued about almost anything. "I will try my very best to avoid any further confrontations with Elfhild tonight, although I have found of late that I have begun to enjoy a lively dispute." She smiled to herself as she thought of her sister's stubborn streak - and her own. "I will behave myself simply because unpleasantness seems to disturb dear old Tarlanc, and he has been so good to us."

"Lass, it is a long tale, and I will not tell it until I have given the two of you a surprise for your birthday."

"Oh, what is it?" Elffled asked eagerly, her eyes brightening.

A very curious Elfhild looked to his beaming face and smiled back. "A surprise?" she queried. "I cannot imagine what it could be."

"What would you like for your birthday, lasses? That is, if you had some choice in the matter," he hastened to clarify his question.

"Oh, sir, if I could have anything that I wanted?" Elffled exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"Anything at all, girl!" Tarlanc chuckled, amused at the unmistakable avarice in the girl's eager response. "Such tender years... So innocent, yet so greedy. She has a thirst for life. Would that she realize her hopes while still retaining her artless simplicity. If I am successful in escorting them safely back to Rohan, perhaps she will."

"Well, if I could have anything--" she stretched the word out dramatically and clasped her hands together and brought them to her cheek as she looked up with wide eyes at the night sky, "--I would want a dress made of the finest material, like a rich lady would wear, and many fine jewels." Pausing, she looked around dolefully. "Of course, it would do me little good out here in the middle of this wilderness."

"The wild swan in the splendor of its natural setting needs no adornment, and neither does the white rose, pure and lovely in its simplicity. But lasses always want some embellishment to highlight their natural beauty, do they not?" His eyes crinkled up into a teasing smile.

"Is that so bad?" Elffled's face colored slightly at the old man's reference to the swan and the rose, feeling that it was a compliment to her.

"Nay, lass, there is no evil in your wanting pretty things. And you, Elfhild," he turned his face towards her sister, "what might you be wanting? Elegant dresses of fine fabrics, resplendent jewels in rich settings displayed in wondrously designed chests? Mayhap some rarity such as the dwarves have skill in making - boxes which play music and display moving figures when you wind them up? Clocks which not only tell accurate time, but which give you the day, week, month and year, and even a prediction of the weather! Ah, I have it!" An especially flamboyant puff poured from the bowl of his pipe as he came to his conclusion. "A spirited horse, its beauty, speed and endurance like no other?"

"Oh, Tarlanc, while all those things sound wonderful - and I am sure I would love all of them very much - what I would like the most is for the world to look as it once did... for the grass to be green once again, for the flowers to bloom, and the fireflies to fill the night like magic little lights." Though what Elfhild said was a reflection of her true feelings, smug piety tinged her words. This was the sort of thing which her elders would expect her to say. She raised her chin slightly and regarded her sister with a haughty air, for while Elffled had given an adequate response, she had given the better.

"Lass, what you really mean is that you wish that Yavanna would hurry in delivering her gifts this year. I would expect that she is as impatient as you are to cover the north in her verdant green cloak. I would not be surprised if, at the moment we speak, she is complaining to her spouse Aulë of how her plans were thwarted by the petulant Lord in His Dark Tower. Be patient with the mighty Valië, for she might hear you and become angry if you think ill of her. She will green the earth in her own good time. Now while we wait for the goddess' pleasure, let us sweeten our time." He grinned mischievously.

"How will we do that?" Elfhild asked, intrigued by the prospect.

"You will see." Tarlanc rose to his feet and went to his pack, which had been stored beside a tree near where the horses were tethered. The sisters could hear him rummaging about and muttering to himself, "Damn! Cannot see in this darkness! Where did I put that?" When he returned, he brought with him a crockery jar of quince jam and a loaf of bread. Breaking the bread, he handed the sisters each a piece and tossed one to Haun, who caught it in mid-air. 

"I was saving this for a special occasion, such as when we arrive in Rohan," he explained as he opened the jar and spooned a generous dab over their portions. "Then I started thinking what could be more special than a fourteenth birthday! I believe you will find these quince preserves made by boiling the fruit with honey to be delicious. After all," he winked, "I made them myself." Then he smoothed out the blanket and sat down beside Haun. 

"Mmm, the jam is delicious," Elffled praised, determined to give the old miller a compliment before her sister had the chance.

"Aye," Elfhild agreed, "I have had none better." Irritated at her twin, she had to bite her lip to keep from saying something snide. Why did her sister always outdo herself in trying to impress others?

"Plenty more in the jar," Tarlanc added before he put a piece of dried bread, heavily drenched with jam, into his mouth. "Makes even a stale crust taste better." He smacked his lips happily, and then muttered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "'Tis a damn curse when I get jam in my beard. Have no fear, such is not the case." He tore another piece off and offered it to Haun, who had curled up comfortably at his feet. "There is more, lass. Though you would not have believed it, this will make the night much sweeter. I have another surprise, which you could never guess. When you have finished dining, would you like to see it?"

Unable to hide their delight at another surprise, the girls eagerly gave their affirmations, excited to see what other surprises the miller had in store for them. How he gave the wilderness a touch of home! How fortunate they were to have met this kindly old gentleman! 

"Here, you girls finish this wee bit of jam left in the jar while I go to my pack and fetch my surprise." He smiled enigmatically as he placed the jar and spoon in Elfhild's hands. When he returned, he took a place on the other side of the lantern, and unwrapped a piece of cloth from a very curious looking device crafted of wood. It resembled a horseshoe with built in rods which extended from the ends of the shoe and then narrowed, forming a small channel. Extending from the middle to the end was a wooden shaft. Baffled by the strange object, the sisters stared at it in amazement. 

"Mouth trump," he explained crisply. "Never heard of it, I am sure. Maybe you know it by one of its many other names - 'Juice harp,' an appropriate description, lasses, if I ever heard one, for when the unskilled attempt to play it, they exude spittle like a rabid dog."

"Play it, play it, Tarlanc!" Elfhild excitedly encouraged, clapping her hands. "It has been so long since we have heard any music!"

"Do you forget, sister, the strange melodies played by the unknown musician along the banks of the Anduin? When I think about them, I can still hear them in my mind. They were so hauntingly lovely," Elffled sighed dreamily, hearing the exotic music once again.

"How can I ever forget them?" Elfhild retorted dryly. "Though the instrument sounded much like a lute, the melody was discordant, and the singer sounded as though he were a dying animal that should be taken out of its misery as quickly as possible. I hope I never hear such barbaric wailings again in my life!" She shuddered in pain at the memory.

Tarlanc coughed. "Shall I begin?" And at the pleadings of the girls, he took a deep breath and put the strange instrument to his lips. Hoping to hear some lovely and exotic tune such as might be played upon the reed pipes, the girls were startled when they first heard strange, short pops emitting from the trump. Then, as the melody sped up, it sounded almost like the strings of a harp being plucked rapidly.

Occasionally, he would make a whirring noise that sounded like loose lute strings being plucked. As he kept changing the shape of his mouth and varying the quantity of air as he held the trump to his lips or his teeth, he could create overtones of melodies. Sometimes he would add percussion that resembled soft beats upon a tiny drum. Sometimes the sounds would seem to mimic the trotting of horses' hooves, or with increased tempo, the drumming hoof beats of a galloping horse. He sped up the rhythm, making the instrument whir and pound intermittently. Then with a rapid conclusion of whirrings, poundings, drumming, twangs and squeals, he suddenly stopped playing and took the juice harp from his lips, bowing with a sweeping flourish. 

"That, lasses, concludes the performance, unless, of course," he added impishly, "you would like another dose." His eyebrows arched skeptically. "I can see that you do not."

"No, no, Tarlanc!" Elffled exclaimed, trying to think of something complimentary. "Please play another! I thought it was rather... haunting!"

"Indeed, it was unusual." Elfhild gnawed on her lower lip. "Unusual" was all she could think of to say. Actually, it was the most horrible music she had ever heard in her life, far worse even than the Southron's bizarre singing style and discordant melody. She wondered if the hearing of it might bring about another night of nightmares, or even worse, sleepwalking.

Tarlanc made his next serenade mercifully short, content with a soft mixture of whirling, popping, drumming, twanging, squealing and strumming. At the conclusion, he bowed again, wrapped the instrument in its covering, and took it back to his pack. When he returned and took his seat, he did not seem at all insulted that the sisters had not been impressed with the playing. Actually, he seemed as though he had expected, if not an overtly unfavorable response from them, then either a neutral or a patiently indulgent one. 

"Pass me the wineskin, if you would be so kind, Elfhild," he requested. Licking his lips, he took the container from her hand as she passed it to him. "Gives one a powerful thirst to play one of these little beauties. A few swallows of the general's wine, and I will be in a good mood to tell you that tale that I promised."

"Yes, I was wondering when you would tell us about the worst whipping of your life," Elfhild suggested eagerly, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Oh, tell us a story!" Elffled exclaimed. Leaning forward, she placed her elbows upon her knees and rested her chin in her cupped hands.


	12. The Limekiln

Chapter Written by Angmar

When the storm's fury had at last abated, Fródwine set off on his long legs with his brothers scurrying to keep up with him. They walked under the dripping branches until they came to a glade, grown up with small bushes and bordered by the great trees of the wood. Here, Fródwine ordered them to strip and drape their wet garments over the bushes to dry in the sun, which had burst out in radiant, bright splendor, as though to compensate for the darkness of the tempest just past. 

One huge and mighty oak had been uprooted by the winds. Crashing down, the giant had taken lesser trees with it in its death throes, smashing them to the ground and crushing them beneath its thick trunk and copious branches. Unwilling to sit upon the damp ground, Frumgár and Fritha climbed up on the felled trunk and watched as Fródwine walked to a mangled young ash. The sapling's base had been almost splintered in twain by the force of the mighty oak's fall.

"Frumgár!" came his elder brother's sharp command. "Get off your lazy bottom and help me with this tree!"

"What are you going to do with it? came Frumgár's grumpy-sounding voice as he hopped off the oak trunk.

"You will see."

Together, the two boys pushed and shoved at the young ash until they had broken it off near its bottom. Propping the base end of the tree against the oak trunk, Fródwine set to work, hacking and sawing at the wood with the orc knife until he had cut off the bushy head of the tree.

"Watch me and learn," he commanded in a condescending tone of voice as he held the smaller end of the sapling in one hand and began trimming the wood to a sharp point with the orc dagger. "Those skills which I learned in Father's carpenter shop will stand me in good stead with this business. Perhaps when we return home, I will start my own shop and make both weapons and farm implements." As he skillfully trimmed off pieces of bark and wood, the shavings grew into a small pile at his feet.

"Fródwine, you must think that I am a complete lackwit!" Frumgár muttered in offended dignity. "Perhaps you have forgotten that I have witnessed all your efforts to create weapons. Yesterday's attempts at making a spear from a dead branch turned out none too successful, and you finally discarded it as being of little value."

"The ash is straight, the wood is strong, the point is sharp, the range is long," Fródwine hummed to himself as he whittled on the sapling.

"And your poetry is as bad as ever, and I may add misleading. The spear is far too short, heavy and crooked to have any range at all." Frumgár smirked in pleased satisfaction as he walked back to resume his seat on the fallen oak.

Testing the balance of the spear in his hand, Fródwine made a few preliminary thrusts with the weapon before ambling over to where Frumgár and Fritha sat on the butt of the oak. Smirking triumphantly, he brought the spear forward, touching the sharpened tip against Frumgár's bare stomach. "What do you say to this?" he smiled pleasantly as he pushed the sharpened end deeper into his brother's stomach.

"I would say you have been successful today, brother, and you have proved your point rather well," Frumgár whispered as he looked uncertainly down at the spear and then into his brother's eyes. Sometimes he wondered if his brother would enjoy killing him.

"Aye, I believe I have been," Fródwine grinned as he dug the spear point deeper into his brother's stomach. Laughing, he took a step back, placed the hilt of the spear on the ground and leaned against the shaft. "Now with the orc dagger and this spear, I believe that we stand a far better chance of protecting ourselves. We will rest here a while longer until our clothing has finished drying, and after having a bite of nourishment, we will resume our journey."

***

After the tempestuous storm of the afternoon, Midsummer Eve brought fair weather, a cloudless, star-ridden sky and a waxing moon which shone silvery bright like a shield of mithril. The rain had plummeted down in torrents, but the thirsty earth had consumed the waters totally, licked its parched lips and begged for more.

"Can I carry the spear, Fródwine?" Fritha asked hopefully, eying the weapon as eagerly as if it had been a prized new toy.

"Do you think you can wield it?" came Fródwine's brusque reply.

"No, I guess not," Fritha replied, disappointed, his feelings hurt. He and Frumgár fell into step behind Fródwine, and the usually talkative youngest boy lapsed into silence. 

"Brothers, we are fortunate," Fródwine broke the silence. "The ground drank up most of the water, and so our feet should not get too wet." He guided them along the banks of the small stream which he had followed earlier in the day. The brook, strengthened by the waters which had rushed forth from the skies earlier, had spilled over its banks during the height of the storm. Though its level had since dropped considerably, still the water growled angrily as it rushed tumultuously on its way to the Anduin.

Leaving the stream, Fródwine set a westward course through the woods. Deciding to venture out into the expanse of clear land between the eaves of the forest and the mountains to the south, he took a risk and stepped out into the open. Seeing no evidence of enemies and deciding it was safe, Fródwine led his brothers out of the trees and walking on, they came to an old road, long abandoned. 

"Lads, though this road is now deserted, if you will but inspect the land around it carefully, you will see that this road has had use sometime in the not too distant past. See how the dead grasses of last autumn still cling to the soil on both sides of the road, but in the midst of the roadbed, the ground has been churned up, as though by many hooves?"

"Aye, brother, I see what you have pointed out. Undoubtedly forces of the enemy have used this road not too long ago." Frumgár bent down and inspected the roadway.

"Though it is tempting to walk along this pathway, I do not want to take the chance that we might meet an enemy patrol." Fródwine's brow furrowed in concern. "Therefore, we shall take to the woods, striking a course parallel to the road."

"Oh, Fródwine! Not more woods!" Fritha whined, looking down at his scratched ankles. "I keep tripping over the brambles!"

"Hush, baby!" Fródwine growled. "Just lift your fat little legs higher, and you will not fall so much!"

"They will not go any higher!" Fritha complained, biting his lower lip in frustration. 

"Be quiet! Not another word!" Fródwine warned. Sometimes he felt like boxing his little brother's ears. Such a baby! At least Fritha stopped his whining. 

Crossing over the road, the boys journeyed onward, keeping the foothills of the mountains to their left. Following along the contours of the land, they rounded a rock outcropping that thrust out into their path. Passing by the steep bank, they came to a clearing. Before them, looming out of the darkness like a great wall, was the flat face of a large stone structure.

**The Limekiln by Elfhild**

Set into the slope of a small knoll, the ruins of an old lime kiln brooded sullenly. The sight came into their view unexpectedly and took the boys completely by surprise. Appearing much like the barbican of a deserted castle, the structure jutted out like a stark barrier, though there was no castle to be seen, only the hill into which three of its four sides had been built. The rounded arch of the kiln's entryway was dark and foreboding, like a portal leading into a mysterious chamber of abysmal darkness. Resembling a castle in appearance, perhaps -- or a barrow ancient and weathered by time, its somber door leading to the resting place of the dead. Yet though its gloominess was heavy and oppressive, the shadowy tunnel appealed to an innate sense of lurid curiosity and beckoned as much as it repelled.

Now abandoned and forgotten, at one time the deserted structure had been the site of a prosperous lime burning industry. Limestone had been taken from the Stonewain Valley and then borne on carts drawn by horses to the kilns. Then from the wells at the top, the men would dump limestone down into the fires. Fires were kept burning almost continuously in the bowl shaped chamber at the base of the kiln, a work so hot and exhausting that a quart of beer was considered a fair part of the lime burner's wages. As each layer of limestone was added, more wood was thrown in until the limestone and burning timber reached near the roof of the kiln.

The powdered lime which was drawn off at the bottom was extremely hot and caustic, a dangerous substance with which to work. Enduring the thick smoke and noxious fumes and facing the possibility of asphyxiation, the workers loaded the lime into barrels which were to be hauled away to Minas Tirith and there used in the making of mortar, plaster, white-wash, cleansers or spread over the fields to improve the tilth and vitality of the soil.

Years before, the industry had moved further south. No more did the flames belch from the open wells at the top to pierce the sky and set the night aglow. The laborers who had sweated and struggled in the burning of limestone had in time turned into dusty bones, themselves resembling now the powdery limestone which they had once burnt. The boys, of course, knew none of this, and true it was that the only record of the history of the lime burners existed now only in dusty tomes stored and basically forgotten in archives in Minas Tirith. These accounts were seldom of interest to anyone, except an occasional scribe who chanced upon the story, and, upon reading it, thought it but a quaint tale from the past.

Silvery moonlight shown down, illuminating the pale blocks of the forsaken structure and the loose bricks which lay scattered around its base. Crawling up its weathered sides were the brown skeletons of withered vines and tufts of dead grass which set their roots into the places where the bricks had grown soft and crumbly with time. A few barren branched trees rose up around the kiln, the moonlight shining off the gnarled limbs, casting spidery patterns of light and dark which shifted as a soft breeze stirred the naked branches.

"What is that, Fródwine?" Fritha asked in a whisper, afraid to speak any louder. The youngest boy pushed closer to Frumgár's side and clung tightly to his hand as he always did when he was frightened or distressed.

Fródwine was silent for a few moments before replying. "From the little I can see of it in this darkness, anything I would say would be only a conjecture. Perhaps it is the base of a tower or a fane, dating back to the old ones of ancient days, but who can say for sure?" He shrugged his shoulders, having little interest in the venerable structure.

Frumgár, with Fritha holding tightly to his hand, walked parallel to the base of the kiln and peered up to the uppermost level. "Look, Fródwine, there is a gentle slope along the side leading to the top. Could we not explore and attempt to determine what it might have been?"

"Becoming brave, are you, lad?" Fródwine chuckled in that mocking tone that had become so much a part of his nature here of late.

"No, just curious," Frumgár replied testily. "It does not take much bravery to walk up a slope."

"Go on," Fródwine replied indifferently as he settled his back against the trunk of a gnarled oak. "You should be safe enough. If there were orcs about, we would have seen some sign of them, or smelled them. You know what a stench they leave in their wake. I was about to call a halt to rest for a while anyway. Just keep your eyes alert in case there should be any adders or other such serpents about. Oft times, they dwell around piles of rock or abandoned buildings."

"I will keep my eyes open," he replied and glanced down to Fritha. "If you prefer waiting here with Fródwine, little brother, I will go atop and look about."

"No! I would rather go with you!" Fritha glanced warily at Fródwine and then turned pleading eyes upon Frumgár. "You were not going to go inside, were you?" Fritha asked in a lower tone, obviously having second thoughts. "It is dark and scary, you know."

"No, we are not going inside. We have no torches, and besides, I have no desire to meet serpents in the dark," came Frumgár's matter-of-fact reply. He led Fritha along the base of the kiln, searching for a way up the knoll that would keep them out of the underbrush and rubble. "Here, follow me!" he exclaimed as he sighted a route to the top. The incline that Frumgár chose was relatively gentle, and soon the two boys neared the top of the grade.

"I did not want to stay down there with Fródwine," Fritha confided in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "He is so cross and grouchy anymore that I would prefer not to be around him much."

"Fritha, do not be so harsh on your brother. He has much upon his mind. Now keep holding my hand... you remember what Fródwine said about snakes," Frumgár cautioned as they came to the top of the slope. There before them, the incline of the hill met the flat stone of the roof.

Fritha squeezed Frumgár's hand in acknowledgement that he understood. "There is not really much to see up here, Frumgár, only some old trees and shrubs," came Fritha's disappointed voice. "Say, I wonder what that is over there?" he queried, pointing to a shadowy indentation on the northern side of the roof. "Let us see!" He tugged Frumgár's resisting hand.

"Hold my hand! Do not go venturing off without me! You must be careful up here!" Frumgár warned.

"Nothing up here will hurt us. This is just the top of a hill!" Fritha gave his hand another impatient jerk. When his brother did not move as quickly as he wanted, he broke free and scampered across the stone roof.

"Fritha, come back here!" Frumgár called nervously. "Where are you?" His eyes searched over the roof of the kiln. When he could not locate the little boy, Frumgár's stomach tightened in a spasm of apprehension.

"I am right over here, Frumgár!" Fritha giggled. "Are you going blind?"

Finally catching sight of his little brother, Frumgár began closing the distance between Fritha and himself. "I did not see you," he replied brusquely, irritated with Fritha's games.

"It is a hole in the roof!"

"I can see that, Fritha! Now get back from it before you fall in!" A worried Frumgár became even more agitated at the sight of Fritha standing so close to the edge of what appeared to him to be the open pit of a well. In reality, this had been the top of the shaft leading to the furnace of the kiln. The aperture, which had once belched acrid smoke and fumes during times of lime burning, was wide and round like the circular opening to a deep well, and just as dangerous to the unsuspecting and careless.

"No, I want to look!" Fritha replied, determined to have his own way. He took a step closer to the great, gaping pit and bent down to pick up a small stone. "Do you think I am dull-witted? I am not a baby; I have sense enough not to fall in!"

"If you do not get back from there right now, I am going to call for Fródwine to come up here! If you do not do what I say, he will be very angry at you for disobeying!" Upset and becoming increasingly more alarmed, Frumgár quickly moved towards Fritha.

Fritha edged closer to the course of moss-encrusted limestone that lined the well from its top to its bottom. Tossing the stone down into the dark chasm, he listened until it thudded on the kiln floor some twenty feet below. "See? Nothing happened." Half turning to face Frumgár, Fritha giggled as he bent down to pick up another fist-sized piece of limestone.

Just as he waved to Frumgár, Fritha felt the limestone supporting wall beginning to give way, sagging under the weight of its great antiquity. As the rim sank, the sodden ground about it caved in, the sides of the wall slipping downward in a wet, oozing mass of dirt, deteriorated limestone and fire tiles. Screaming in panic, Fritha tried to jump back, but his feet slid out from under him on the muddy ground. Waving his arms wildly in the air, he frantically tried to regain his balance, but he was captured in the powerful force of the moving earth. Screaming again, he was sucked down over the edge of the precipice.

"Fritha!" Frumgár shrieked wildly.

More of the rock wall collapsed, the debris gaining momentum as it slid downward into the darkness, until it was like the crest of a mighty wave. As Frumgár stood helplessly at the top and screamed hysterically, Fritha was borne downward by the momentum of the sliding conglomerate of earth, fire tile and limestone. The wave swept him down until he was tumbled to the bottom of the old kiln. Throwing his hands in front of him to catch his fall, he screamed in agony as his left arm bore the brunt of his sudden descent. Lying on his back, whimpering in pain, he looked up to see a few loose stones break away from the rim. He tired to cover his face with his hands, but his left arm was clumsy. "Mother!" he whimpered as a stone struck his forehead. Then all went dark and he knew no more.


	13. The People of the Watch-stones

Chapter Written by Angmar

Half dozing as he leaned against a block of stone, Fródwine awoke at the sound of Frumgár's frantic shouts. Muttering under his breath, he rushed up the embankment and found a sobbing Frumgár kneeling at the edge of the ancient limekiln's collapsed chimney well.

"What in blazes has happened?" Fródwine demanded angrily as he moved beside Frumgár.

"Fritha is dead, our little brother is dead," came the anguished reply.

"Dead? What nonsense is this? You are not making any sense!" Fródwine followed Frumgár's glance downward into the emptiness below them.

"The ground slid away under him and took him down with it." Frumgár gestured towards the pit. "He is down there somewhere, crushed to death under the rubble."

"Why do you think he is dead?" Fródwine demanded, shock and incredulity on his face. "This cannot be happening! This is some sort of mad nightmare!"

"I called down to him and he would not answer!" Frumgár wailed, the tears and misery freely running down his face and dripping from his cheeks.

Disbelieving, Fródwine grasped Frumgár by the shoulders and turned him around to face him. "Make sense, brother! You are babbling foolishly! Fritha is not dead! You are mistaken!"

"He would not listen when I warned him not to venture near that hole! He ran away from me, refusing to obey me! He is dead! He is dead!" Frumgár moaned over and over again, blaming himself for the accident. "It is all my fault!" Life is unfair, Frumgár told himself. He had lost both his mother and father, and now his little brother. Nothing could be as black as this night had been!

Fródwine pushed Frumgár to the side and peered down into the cavity. "Fritha!" he yelled. "Can you hear me, lad?" His anxiety and alarm growing with each pounding beat of his heart, Fródwine again shouted down into the void below him. "Fritha!" There was no answer, only silence. "Fritha!" he screamed again and again. He moved closer to the yawning mouth of the pit and felt a barely perceptible quiver in the earth. Leaping backward, he watched as a chunk of earth broke off and tumbled into the pit.

"Fródwine!" Frumgár cried. "The ground is moving again!"

Fródwine looked down in horror and saw that the unstable ground was beginning to slide, slumping towards the gaping pit of the well. Grabbing his brother by the arm, Fródwine screamed, "Come on! We have to get out of here before the whole hill slides into the pit!"

Giving in to total panic, the boys ran across the top of the limekiln, not looking behind them. Their terrified flight did not end until they had gained the firm ground of the slope behind the limekiln. Stumbling down the incline, Fródwine led a dazed Frumgár by the arm until they both stood at the dismal entryway to the burning chamber and stared into its yawning darkness.

"You wait out here. I am going in to look for him!" Fródwine exclaimed as he grasped Frumgár's forearm encouragingly. Then taking a deep breath to bolster up his own courage, he ducked beneath the crumbling archway. He had taken only a few paces when he found the passageway impassible, clogged with rubble. Cursing in defeat, he returned to his brother.

"After a few feet, the tunnel is blocked!" he admitted despondently.

"It is hopeless, Frumgár," Frumgár choked out another sob and wiped his nose with his finger.

"Frumgár, this is no time to lose your head! We have to get Fritha out of there!" Fródwine exclaimed as he eyed the blocked opening. "Now get over here and help me!"

Frumgár barely heard Fródwine's voice, for grief had set a cushioning curtain over his mind, blocking out the horror of losing his brother. His mind numb, he stared unseeingly at the aperture that lay dark and gloomy in the last light of the sinking moon.

"I want Mother, Fródwine," Frumgár burst out, sobbing disconsolately, his slender shoulders shaking.

"Keep your courage, lad. Mother will be with us soon." Fródwine felt a twinge of conscience as he told another comforting falsehood.

"You know she will not be, Fródwine," Frumgár lashed out bitterly. "We will never see her again! Your stories are just lies, and your talk about a quest foolishness! Tell the truth for once, or have you forgotten how?"

"Frumgár, help me, and maybe we will have him out soon!" Digging with his orcish knife, Fródwine struggled to dislodge a piece of stone which was wedged against the archway, but his hopes were lessening by the minute.

"It is useless, Fródwine. He has passed beyond our help," Frumgár replied in a mournful voice. "He is with the ancestors now, and this will be his cairn."

***

The feast had lasted throughout the night, and as dawn slipped up on them, the revelry showed little signs of ending. The flames of the huge bonfire still roared in the center of their small settlement and cast flickering shadows against their dwellings, built around the boles of great trees. Though some never drank any draught stronger than water, a sense of innocent merriment pervaded the assemblage. Those children who had managed to stay awake this long were welcome to sit among their elders, asking questions when they had a mind, or listening quietly when they deemed that most appropriate. Children were greatly beloved among these people, for they were few in number.

Around the outer perimeters of the enclave were built bizarre statues which, though crude by some men's reckoning, resembled amazingly well the images of orcs fleeing in terror from the area. Other statues were built farther away from the village and set about the paths that led to the settlement. These depicted the villagers themselves squatting atop the carcasses of dead orcs. Those who were friends with the Dhrû-folk knew the purposes of these statues and the power which lay within them. They called them by the name that the people themselves used - the watch-stones.

Though the people were shy and secretive by nature, those outsiders who possessed the wit and wisdom to appreciate them found them to be a friendly and generous people. During the First Age of the Sun, they had dwelt near the habitations of the people of Haleth, the warrior woman, and offered protection upon occasion to her people. Guardians and helpers of their friends, they were fierce foes of the orcs, hating those brutes with a furious passion.

Lore told that they had devised no written language of their own other than signs to mark trails through the forests. They excelled in carving wood and working stone, and were renowned and skilled craftsmen in these materials. Making their own pigments, they decorated their creations with bright colors. They were short people, some no higher than four-feet tall, their outward appearance belying hearts and minds that were usually cheerful and happy. They never tired of singing and dancing, delighting in playing music upon the drums which they crafted.

Though they could laugh and jest when occasion demanded, many were introspective and could spend days at a time reflecting in total silence. It was told that a man once came upon two of these people along a byway. Because neither one had spoken to him when he greeted them, he assumed that they were both statues. Then when he passed by that way again, he draped his cloak over one of the statues and leaned his back against the figure, for he was very weary. Falling asleep, the man was awakened by a voice which implored him to remove the cloak and place it on the true statue, explaining that he had grown too hot with the cloak about his shoulders. The man, shocked almost beyond words, apologized to the small man for his error and was quickly away.

These obscure people left no written history of their own, and the little that is known about them was recorded by the learned in the annals of elves and men. Though few among the Drughu ever learned to read and write, still they were able to pass down their history to their children through a system of oral tradition.

Among these tales it is told that Barach, a forester of Beleriand, was friends with a Drûg named Aghan, who was greatly skilled in leechcraft. Barach and his family lived in a hut in the forest, two miles from their nearest neighbor. Much loved by Barach's children, the little man often stayed with Barach and his family and guarded their home at night.

A time of relative peace had prevailed for some time, but then the predations of the orcs began anew, fiercer and more savage than before. Many of the beasts had crept secretly into the forest by twos and threes. Their vile acts of murder, rapine and savage destruction raged rampant throughout the forest land.

It was in this time of woe that word came to Aghan that his brother, who lived at a distance, was wounded by orc poison and was in great pain. Though loath to leave his friends, Aghan departed from them and went to aid his brother. Before leaving, he first endowed a watch-stone with some of his power and left it to guard the family.

Three nights later, the good man was asleep in his bed when he was awakened by the warning cry of the little people. Possibly he had only imagined it or dreamed it, for his wife and children had heard none of the cry. Alarmed by this warning, Barach rose from his bed and took up his bow.

Peering through a narrow window, he espied the shadowy forms of two menacing orcs who drew near his home. Certain that they planned mischief, Barach prepared to defend his hearth and home and nocked an arrow, pulling the string close to his cheek and waited until they drew nigh. As he watched, the orcs piled wood against the side of the house. They had with them devil's fire, or as some would call it, brimstone, a potent substance that quickly explodes into flames, with water seldom exercising power over it. Though the orcs employed this devil's fire, it is said by some that the ancestors of the Khandians were the original inventors, and made good use of it throughout their history.

As the flames about his house grew higher, Barach was about to launch an arrow, but before he could do aught, he beheld one of the small people, who seemed to come from nowhere, save out of the night. The Drûg rushed upon the orcs, knocking one sprawling and senseless with his fist. The little man jumped up and down and stomped out the fire with his feet. The other orc, terrified, fled away, and upon seeing his retreat, Barach rushed out, but there was no sign either of the orc, or of Barach's protector.

Returning inside the house to comfort his terrified family, Barach did not issue forth from his hut until the next morning, when he inspected the grounds about his house. He discovered that the watch-stone was missing, and he concluded that the orcs must have stolen it. Later that day, Barach was gladdened when Aghan returned from his brother's house. Upon inquiring about the Drûg's brother, Barach was relieved to learn that Aghan had reached him before he succumbed to the poison of his injury, and that now he was on his way to recovery.

The two friends were happy that all had turned out well for both of them, but Barach was puzzled about the identity of his unknown protector of the night before and the fate of the watch-stone. Aghan's reply was that he needed to look about the grounds and ponder about the matter. After a lengthy inspection of the environs of the house, the Drûg came to a thicket, where they found the watch-stone, both legs covered with soot and one of them broken and lying at the side.

Barach could see that Aghan was saddened at the ruining of the watch-stone, but his friend soothed him by saying that the stone had done all in its might and it was far better that the rock be burnt than him. The little man had come back wearing buskins - a sort of sandal-like boot which was open-toed and laced up the front, which the little people wore sometimes in rough country to protect their feet from stony ground and thorns. Pulling off his buskins, Aghan showed his feet to Barach, and the forester saw that both were bandaged.

Barach listened in awed wonder as the Drûg related that he had kept watch by his brother for two nights and had not slept until the third. Then awakening in pain before dawn, Aghan discovered that his feet had been terribly burned and blistered. Divining what must have happened, the Drûg realized that his friend and family must have been in dire peril the night before, and only through the power which he had placed in the watch-stone were they able to escape. Barach was humbled by the sacrifice that the little man had made, but Aghan only shrugged. Looking towards the watch-stone, he explained that when a person creates a magic thing, placing his own power and part of himself into it, he must expect to suffer the same pain that it did.

Besides these tales, the lore also relates that after the great Melkor was stricken down and fallen, the isle of Númenor was raised up as a habitation for the just and righteous of that holy war. The Drûgs were allowed to sail across with the Atani. Never a populous people on Middle-earth, they had few children, with many of their women staying unmarried. Still their numbers increased while on Númenor.

In time, though, having foreknowledge, they became dissatisfied and sought to return back from whence they had come. Then, begging passage, by small groups they slowly returned to Middle-earth. Fleeing the wrath which was to come, by the time that Eru saw fit to punish the Númenóreans for their worship of Sauron, none of the Drúedain remained upon the island when it sank at last beneath the sea.

Though ungainly in body and uncomely to the eye, still these simple, small folk possessed a quiet, calm dignity and beauty of the spirit. Though there was great strength in their squat bodies, the years of their lives upon the earth were not numerous, and they perished before great age came upon them. Their numbers steadily dwindled, until by the time that the three brothers from Rohan were born, the largest population was in Druadan Forest. It was passed down in the legend of the men of Andrast that a remnant of this mysterious people yet lived in Drúwaith Iaur, the old Pûkel-land, around the mountains of the promontory of Andrast. However, whether the tales were true or not, no one could say for certain, though some swore they heard drums coming from deep within the forests of southwestern Gondor.

***  
NOTES

To learn more about the often overlooked Drúedain, read the below:

"The Drúedain," Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth by J. R.R Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien  
"The Ride of the Rohirrim," The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien  
"Of Dwarves and Men," The Peoples of Middle-earth by J. R.R Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien


	14. The Randirrim Caravan

Chapter Written by Angmar 

Taking a long drink of wine, Tarlanc felt the robust tingling sensation tease his mouth and then warm its way down to his stomach. "I will never forget my father's words that day as he burnt my bare hindquarters with his belt. 'Son,' he bellowed, 'if I ever catch you stealing away to that camp of foreigners again, I will give you such a whipping that this one will seem as gentle as the loving tap of a mother's hand upon a baby's backside!"

"'But, Father,' I cried as I attempted to evade his punishment by moving out of his reach, 'what is so wrong about having a little entertainment? You are always telling me that my education is dreadfully lacking. Mayhap my encounter with these strange people will teach me about the world!' 

"'I will educate you, you impertinent and foolish youth! I will give you such an education that you will not forget it anytime soon!' About that time, he caught the neck of my tunic and held me as I fought to escape his grasp. Forcing me to stand despite my struggles, he twisted the fabric so tightly that I thought he would strangle me! To my embarrassment, he tugged my breeches down to my knees. Then he drew back his belt and struck my backside with such a resounding jolt that it drove me forward. I thought the next whack would lift me off the ground and send me soaring to the top of the mill!

"That belt was like pure fire as it scorched my rear! He had given me whippings in the past, but nothing to compare with this one. I thought he would surely strip the flesh off my throbbing posterior! Squeezing my eyes tightly shut and gritting my teeth, I tried every way I knew to keep from crying, but my bottom was in such agony that I could not prevent an occasional tear from escaping past my eyelids.

"'Though I respect and honor Lord Caun and give him my total fealty, it is beyond my comprehension why he ever allowed those filthy vagabonds to camp on his land at the outskirts of the village,' my father raged as he struck my abused bottom again and again. 'They must have tetched his mind and bewitched him! His sire would never have allowed it, you can be sure of that!'

"Whipping me every step of the way, he marched me out in a lively step before him. From one end of the first floor of the mill to the other, his belt bit across my flaming backside, its rhythm never breaking. I could not refrain from yelping each time that the belt mauled my burning backside. 'No, Father, no!' I begged. 'That hurts! Please stop! You are going to kill me! Oh! Oh!' By that time, the tears were running freely down my cheeks. My face flamed hot from the weeping and the embarrassment of this indignity. I felt that my father had shamed me and deeply wounded my pride. How very cruel it was of him to beat me in such a vicious fashion! Even if the whipping had been administered in a reasonable way, I was far too old to be whipped like a child. At fourteen, I considered myself grown and worthy to be treated as a man. I had never liked my father, and at that moment I hated him!"

Elfhild sighed and shook her head. "Poor old Tarlanc," she thought. "He suffered so much as a boy!" Her own father had been strict at times, but never had he been cruel. Oh, how she wished that Tarlanc's past had been different! She regretted that she had ever been so distrustful of the miller.

"Ah, lasses, although this happened long ago, I can still hear my father's words as his face convulsed in rage," the old miller mused, sipping his drink slowly. "'Tarlanc,' my father told me, 'someday you will be so grateful to me for this call to reason that you will get down on your hands and knees and beg my forgiveness. Although you are too stubborn and impetuous to realize it, I am saving you from coming under the influence of those evil heathens! If I do not keep you out of their clutches, they will put one of their spells on you and bind you to them forever!' At that moment, he lashed across the flaming cheeks of my bottom with his belt. The dreadful scourge stung me so badly that it felt as though I had fallen into the glowing embers of a fire.

"'They are not evil people, Father!' I tried to tell him. Although I both feared and hated my father, I at last summoned the courage to stop running from him. I would submit to the worst he could give me. And, lasses," Tarlanc shook his head as his lips hardened and his eyes grew dark, "he gave me the most dreadful punishment that any man could give the son he vowed he loved! His cruelty belied the words he told me and turned them into nothing but lies.

"'Not evil?' he laughed caustically. 'Son, they already have a hold over your mind,' he lectured as he delivered the fiercest, most painful stripe of the entire whipping. 'Has all of your good sense left you? The Randirrim are thieves and troublemakers! Their spell-makers and witches will put curses upon us, and inflict us with dire plagues! They will steal our children from their beds, our horses and cows from our barns, our sheep from the fold, and our chickens from their coops! Not content with that trumpery, they will steal every crockery jar of pickled vegetables, jams and preserves from our cellars and pantries and every bag of grain from our storehouses! They are an unconscionable and evil people, and never to be trusted! You keep away from them, son, you hear me, or next time I will blister the skin off your backside!'

Tarlanc looked over to the girls and was pleased that they seemed engrossed in his tale as he continued. "I was thankful that his last blow was at least less harsh than the others. Perhaps he was worried that he would do me far more serious damage if he did not lessen the severity of his flagellation. As it was, the welts that he raised across my backside and thighs were so severe that I could not sit down for the next week!

"'There, now!' He spun me around to face him, holding my face so close to his that I could smell the wine on his breath. I could scarcely bear to look into his contemptuous eye. His face flushed with such anger that it had taken on the ruddy color of blood, and his nostrils flared so widely that I could see every hair and blood vessel as the air passed through his nose. 'If I find out that you have gone back to the camp of those thieving Randirrim ever again, I am going to give you the whipping of your life! It will make this one seem like pleasure!'

"He held me by both shoulders, glaring deeply into my eyes. 'Listen to me, boy. Do not go running to your mother with your whimpering and complaining the way you always do. It will not matter what she says anyway.' He began shaking me hard, my head rocking back and forth on my shoulders. 'She has always been too soft on you, favoring you over the others, and keeping you out of my way when you had disobeyed me! You will listen to me, boy, and if you speak back to me with that impertinent tone, I will slap your despicable face!' He shook me harder.

"'For the next month, there will be no more fine food for you! You are going to dine on bread and water and thank me for it! Except for regulating the flow of water through the sluice gate and the actual milling, you will be responsible for the rest of the work around the mill. If your brothers offer to lend you aid, you will refuse them!' He released me with a push, sending me sprawling over backwards upon my seared buttocks. 'Now stop your crying and try to control yourself! Act like a man instead of the bawling infant that you are! Go to the well now and wash your dirty face. Make yourself presentable before you appear before me again!'

"With another fierce glare, he turned his back on me and stalked out of the mill. So upset that I temporarily forgot my pain, I sat down on a sack of meal and quickly jumped to my feet with a cry of pain. When I touched my maligned bottom, I brought my fingers back wet with my own blood. Aye, lasses, he beat me so ferociously that the welts had ruptured and were bleeding."

Tarlanc paused and stared at the candle, the muscles in his face relaxing, his jaw going slack. His eyes grew vacant as he gazed into the candle and dredged up old memories that were best left buried in the past.

Elffled sighed deeply, very moved by this tragic story. "Tarlanc," she touched his shoulder, "please have a sip of wine. I know you must be thirsty."

"Thank you, lass. I must pause for a while to gather my thoughts," he remarked absentmindedly as he took the wineskin from her outstretched hand. He pursed his lips briefly, as though thinking whether he really wanted a draught or not. Then with a smile at Elffled, he put the mouth of the wineskin to his lips and drank deeply.

Leaning forward slightly, Elfhild gave the miller a questioning look. "Why did your father have such a violent hatred for these wanderers, the Randirrim? Did he have reason?"

"Aye, lass," Tarlanc exclaimed as he wiped off his lips with the back of his hand. "My father was a man of intense emotions, often given to a hot temper and fits of violence. A few years before this occurrence, someone stole his best and favorite horse right from the stable. The Randirrim were camped along the stream. For no other reason than their reputation and that they were nearby, he blamed them for the theft. Then in a rage, he and some of his friends went to the camp, armed with swords and axes. They searched the camp, but they found nothing. The horse was never seen again, and nothing was heard about it, but still my father was convinced that the Randirrim had stolen the horse. I always felt that some man from the village or the countryside had taken the horse and sold it in a village far away. My father would never hear to that, though."

Tarlanc handed the wineskin back to Elffled. "I don't know how it is in your country, but many of the people around here, especially those who are ignorant and unlearned, have never trusted the Randirrim. However, simple folk always fear any strangers, but they especially were frightened of them, for their origin is Harad.

"The present lord's grand sire had traveled widely, some saying that he had even ventured into the land of the Haradrim on business for the Steward. Apparently, he saw no harm to these vagabonds, welcoming them each year and giving them permission to camp on his land. He trusted them enough to allow them the use of his property in exchange for the labor of some of their men at harvest season."

The old miller bent down and patted Haun on the head, muttering soft words of praise and comfort. The great mastiff had just awakened from an especially turbulent dream. Haun groaned and muttered, his great chest heaving so hard it sounded like the bellows of a blacksmith's forge. With a devoted glance up to his master, he rose up to his feet and, wagging his short tail, trotted off into the woods.

"Haun has business of his own to attend to, I suppose." His brow furrowed with concern, the miller dismissed the dog's restlessness. "Being so far from home and familiar territory has gotten him unsettled."

"Oh, Tarlanc," Elfhild laughed gently, "Haun has not been the only one plagued with bad dreams since leaving home. I have had some that were horrendous!"

"Tell us, lass," Tarlanc smiled encouragingly.

Her eyes widening with fear, Elfhild shook her head frantically. "No, no, I would rather not! Relating them will merely bring back their terror!" Besides, she thought, the terrifying and sensual nightmare which she had experienced the night before was not proper to discuss in mixed company!

"True, lass," Tarlanc nodded. "If the retelling of them brings you nothing but distress, you should not upset yourself, lest you bring on others even worse."

"Please go on with your tale, Tarlanc," Elffled urged as she looked up to him with earnest eyes.

"Then by your leave, I will resume my account. I took my supper that night standing up, for I could not bear to sit upon my maligned bottom. My father's displeasure at me was still so great that he forbade me to approach the table, so I stood like a dunce in the corner and ate my bread and drank my water. While I watched him eat, I was, as always, appalled by his crude manners. As though they were slaves, he made my mother and sisters wait upon him and my brothers, seldom giving them a kind word. His huge, hairy paws tore the bread and meat to pieces and stuffed them in his red-lipped maw as the juices streamed down the corners of his mouth and into his beard.

"I vowed then that I should run away from home and join the Randirrim, if they would have me. I had only to plan my escape." The old miller smiled when he felt the gentle touch of Elffled's hand once again on his arm. Elfhild was so grieved by his story that she could barely look at him, and sat on the blanket, gazing at the candle, her hands resting atop each other upon her lap.

"Feigning sleep upon my pallet that night when all had gone to bed, I lay awake devising my plans. I resolved not to go back to the camp of the Randirrim anytime soon. I would attempt to turn myself into a perfect son, obeying my father in all things, and working harder than I ever had before in the mill. After adopting this manner for a few weeks, my father's treatment of me became less harsh. He must have concluded that I had learned my lesson from his fierce castigation of me and that I was truly penitent. He allowed me to go to the village again on small errands, and I was careful to perform my tasks and return quickly. By the end of summer, I was confident that he was no longer watching me.

"My reformation lasted until near the end of summer. Then one morning as I was going to the village upon an errand for my father, I passed near the Randirrim camp. My father had to allow that, for it was impossible to travel to the village without crossing the bridge and seeing them. They were in the process of packing their few possessions and loading them into wains. I knew that they would soon be traveling southward for winter. My heart raced in my chest, and I was so excited that my palms began sweating. This would be the night that I would leave!" Pausing, Tarlanc turned to watch Haun, who had returned from his venture into the woods and then lay down quietly at his master's feet.

"Oh, how very exciting!" Elfhild exclaimed, clutching her knees in enthusiasm as her eager ears listened for more.

"I cannot tell you how excited I was," chuckled Tarlanc. He leaned forward, staring into the fire, as he placed his gnarled hands on his thighs. "That night when the cottage was dark and quiet, I gathered up a few belongings and eased out the door. As I breathed deeply of the warm night air, it seemed that the stars shown brighter, the crickets chirped more cheerfully, and my feet hardly touched the ground as I walked to the thoroughfare. 

"Since the road was a good one over gently rolling ground, the Randirrim would have made good time that day, very likely traveling over more than three leagues before nightfall. Striking a brisk stride and maintaining it through the night, I was able to catch up with them about an hour after midnight. There in a field alongside the road I saw the glowing embers of their campfires. I did not go directly to their camp that night, however. I knew that when my father realized that I had run away, he and my brothers would come tearing down the road after me, heading for the Randirrim camp. Instead, I walked quickly past their wagons and continued on the road south for another hour.

"Then, spying a thick copse of trees spreading away to the north, I moved off the road and into their protection. I chose a resting place near a brace of hawthorns, and felt safe enough among their gray-green shapeless thorny masses. The spot was close enough for me to hear the sound of a rider upon the road, and yet far enough away that it was unlikely that I should be detected. Satisfying my hunger with nearly half the loaf of bread which I had brought with me, and quenching my thirst from the tepid water in my water skin, I lay down and slept for over two hours. When I awoke, I was again on my way." He glanced at Elffled. "Thinking of that drink so long ago makes me thirsty. Another draught, lass, if you please. I have a terrible thirst!" Smiling, Elffled gave him the wineskin, which had gone down in quantity greatly throughout the night, for the old miller had been imbibing liberally.

"Dawn found me whistling as I walked along the southern road. Behind me, I heard the sounds of a cart rattling down the road. The driver drove his team past me and then halted, hailing me with a pleasant, 'Ho, lad! Where are you off to so early?' I was in luck, for, being a stranger, he would know nothing of my identity or from whence I had come. Still, I had to think quickly and make up a story which he would believe.

"Taking off my cap and holding it respectfully in my hands, I replied, 'Sir, it grieves me to tell you my tale.' The farmer, a portly, amiable-looking man with twinkling blue eyes, a broad face, and ruddy skin, urged me to continue. 'Ah, sir, if you insist,' I replied. 'My family is a large one and there is little to feed us all. A few months back, with the wailing of the latest wee brother sounding in our ears, my father put his hands upon my shoulders and looked gravely into my eyes. Choking back the tears, he sadly told me, 'My son, it is time that you must make your own way in this world. We have no more to feed another one.'

"Lasses, I confess that at this time, I deliberately irritated my eyes by rubbing them hard with my dirty fingers, enough so that the false tears began to flow down my cheeks. You should take note that at this time in my life, I could be quite the actor if I wished. Along with each stirring part of my account, I would add what I thought were the proper mannerisms to capture the emotion I was trying to convey - sadness, pathos, humor, all those most wholesome emotions. The kind farmer waited for me to calm myself and then I went on. 'Sir, though he had little to spare, my father put a small sum of money in my hands, which I wrapped in my handkerchief and stuck into the pouch at my belt.

"'My father and mother and all my brothers and sisters followed me out of our dilapidated hut and onto the stoop in front of the house. There they stood, crying and wringing their hands, sorrowing at what might be our final parting. There, my mother took me into her arms and, hugging and kissing me, the tears on our cheeks mingling together, she placed a cloth bundle filled with food into my hands. It was the last time I ever saw my dear mother. I have been a wanderer and a vagabond since, traveling from one place to another, finding work where I could, and when I could not, going hungry and sleeping in the woods, or unbeknownst to some farmer, in his loft.' Lasses," Tarlanc looked at the girls gravely, "it was shameful the way I deceived that kind man.

"By this time, the farmer was weeping unabashedly, wiping the copious flow of tears away with a clean white linen handkerchief. I watched as his shoulders shook and he sobbed piteously. Finally he drew a deep, jagged breath, blew his nose loudly, coughed a few times and cleared his throat. 'You poor lad! What a sad story! I do not believe I have ever heard such a pathetic tale.' Knowing I had his sympathy, I screwed my eyes up, adding a tremble to my lips, as I gave him what I thought must surely resemble what would be considered a brave smile. In truth, I was having difficulty stifling my laughter.

"'Oh, sir, it is not as bad as all that, I assure you,' I replied in what I hoped was a pathetic voice. 'I get along quite well, in spite of it all. Never having had much in the way of possessions, I have nothing to miss. What grieves my heart and sorely troubles my soul are the last words I ever heard from my mother's dear lips.' At this point I drew myself up to my full height, pleased that the agitated tears clung to my eyelashes and dripped down my cheeks. I wished at the time that I had a looking glass so that I might see myself. I knew I was as good as any actor upon the stage.

"'What did she say, boy?' the farmer asked as his lower lip trembled and a fresh onslaught of tears poured down his face.

"'Why, sir,' I smiled through my tears, my own lips trembling admirably, 'my beautiful mother said, 'Son, always be honest and truthful, kind to all, returning good for evil, respectful and polite, honorable, brave and true, and always remember the mother who loves you.'

"The portly man could barely speak for his choking sobs, but he managed to mumble hoarsely, 'Lad, where might you be going? Perhaps I can offer you a ride in my cart.' 

"'Why, sir,' I said, shrugging my shoulders, 'nowhere in particular, for I have no home and wander here and there.'

"'Lad, it is market day in the next village. There I hope to sell my crocks of fresh milk, butter and cream to the villagers. I also have a crate of chickens in the back of my cart, as you can see. Climb onto the driver's seat with me and I will take you at least that far.' Then reaching a hand down to me, he helped me into his cart. Setting off with him, he proved to be a good companion. We had a pleasant journey together to the next village, where he shared his dinner with me. After he shook my hand in farewell, I drew my hand back and discovered that there was a copper coin in my palm. Then that kind gentleman and I parted, never to meet again.

"I estimated that by that time the Randirrim must surely be close to the village, and I spent little time in the marketplace. Giving the goods in the merchants' stalls only a superficial perusal, I quietly left town on the road heading west. After walking a mile or so, I came to a thick, tall hedge planted along the side of the road. When I found a break in it wide enough to let me through, I entered, walking only a short distance before I chose my hiding place behind the thick green grove. There I would await the arrival of the Randirrim caravan and what I knew would soon be following them - my father and brothers in hot pursuit of the black sheep of the family."


	15. How I Joined the Randirrim

Chapter Written by Angmar

The hour was growing late, and though the candle had been a new one when Tarlanc began his tale, more than half of the wax had been consumed. As he rose to his feet and straightened his back to ease his aching muscles, he coughed noisily and cracked his knuckles, popping them so loudly that Elfhild was startled by the sound.

"Well, lasses, there is more to my tale if you would care to hear it, but at this present moment, I have a call of nature which I must answer. I shall not tarry long, and to ease any worries you might have at being left alone, Haun will stay here to guard you." With a nod of his head and a "stay, sir," to the mastiff, Tarlanc walked away into the woods.

When he came back, he generously lubricated his throat with wine - a necessity after speaking so long, he told the twins. Then the old miller settled back onto the blankets and resumed his tale. "Elffled and Elfhild, the late summer sun shone down warm and pleasant, and I soon fell asleep behind my fortress of green hedge. I slept there undisturbed for several hours until I was awakened by the clip-clopping of hooves and the rumble of wheels. The Randirrim! As the caravan journeyed by, I hid behind the wall of hedge and furtively peeked out, watching in fascination as the merry vagabonds passed by only a few feet from my face.

"Hardly had the Randirrim passed my hiding place than I heard galloping hooves pounding down the road. Sure enough, as I had supposed betimes, the riders proved to be my father, my brothers, and three of my father's good friends. They were frantically whipping and kicking their horses as though they were escaping from Angband of old!" Remembering the scene in his mind, Tarlanc halted in his storytelling and looked over to Sparrow and Mithril. The two mounts were obviously unimpressed with his story, for they had gone to sleep on their feet.

"What happened next?" Elffled asked eagerly, her eyes glowing with excitement. "Did your father find you?"

"I am coming to that, lass." Tarlanc again filled his pipe and lit it, leaning back and drawing in a mouthful of the pungent smoke. The wineskin now rested against the side of his thigh, where he could easily reach it. Sometime before, the girls had decided that wine was too heady a draught for them, since all they were accustomed to was the weak beer and ale brewed by peasants.

"My gaze followed the line of green hedge which stretched westward along one side of the road. The hedge was like a fence, both marking the boundary of some lord's property and keeping his livestock from straying into the lands of his neighbors. For me, it was both a protection and a guide, and as I set out along the hedge, my heart was light and I whistled as I walked. I had covered nearly three furlongs when the hedge made a sharp right angle and disappeared over a low knoll to the north. Parting the close growing branches, I peered between them to see what lay to the other side. All my good spirits left me when I beheld that as far as I could see there was nothing but open fields! Unless I should somehow turn into a hare or a crawling adder and disappear into the tall grass, there was no place to hide from those who were looking for me! Disheartened, I sat with my head between my hands and pondered what I should do."

"So what did you do?" asked Elfhild, hanging onto every word he said. 

"Why, lass, since I am not a wizard who could turn into a hare or serpent, I did nothing but sit there!" The old man laughed. "The afternoon sun no longer seemed like such a warm and generous friend, but rather as an enemy, who baked me with her harsh rays." Tarlanc leaned over and emptied his pipe on the ground, then refilled the bowl and put the fire to it once again. 

"I had only about a third of a loaf of bread and two apples left of the provisions that I had brought with me. Since my stomach was grumbling with hunger, I finished the bread, but forestalled eating the apples until I could no longer endure my hunger. Having decided that I could not leave my place of refuge until nightfall, I lay down, planning to take a nap, when I heard the sound of hoof beats and the jingling of bits. I peeped through the hedge and there were my father, his friends, and my brothers riding up the road in the direction of our village. Their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped, they looked completely dispirited. I was elated! I was sure that they had given up the search for me, at least for the time."

Elffled leaned closer to the old miller, completely engrossed with the tale and not wanting to miss a word of it. "I do hope that you escaped, for I know that your father would have thrashed you severely had he caught you!"

"I was not about to let him find me," Tarlanc chuckled. "Though the wounds from the previous beating had healed, there were scars and memories which would serve as reminders. I was determined that he would never have the opportunity to whip me again. As quiet as the cat when it stalks its prey, I waited another fifteen minutes, listening to the hoof beats gradually dwindle away. Then I was on my feet, taking out the knife at my belt to widen a small gap in the hedge. That task accomplished, I broke into a trot and put as much distance between my father and myself as I possibly could.

"The darkness had fallen when I saw the welcome lights of the Randirric camp far down the road and off to the left." Tarlanc drew on his pipe and puffed out a curling ring of smoke. "I fear you lasses will become tired of hearing my tale. Therefore, I will keep the telling of it as short as I can, for if I told you all, we might be here some days."

The sisters giggled, and then Elfhild spoke up. "That is the way is it with all engrossing tales. With the good ones, the truly good ones, there is never enough time to tell the whole story. Perhaps someday you will relate to us the complete version of yours."

"Perhaps, lass," Tarlanc nodded his head, "but for now I will confine myself to speaking of the major events which happened during my time with the Randirrim. You should know that back before my father forbade me to visit them, I had made friends with two lads of my own age, brothers, Pere and Meri, who were twins, just like you two. They had introduced me to their father, Wedri, who was one of the leaders of their tribe, and his wife, Ahãma, and also their sister, Tabahaza, a girl who was a bit younger than me." His voice taking on a soft, tender tone, Tarlanc hesitated for a few moments before clearing his throat and resuming his regular manner of speaking.

"As I was saying, night had fallen when my weary footsteps took me into the outskirts of their camp. There, I was halted by a young man who was serving his term as night guard. He led me to the wain of Wedri and Ahãma, who were sitting outside around the campfire. Suspended above the fire was a bubbling pot of stew, and the fragrant spicy smell made my mouth water. All that summer, I had eaten no decent food, living on nothing but bread and water, and that day I had to be content with stale bread and two apples. Soon, Ahãma had placed a bowl of stew and a chunk of black bread in my hands. It took another bowl and several pieces of bread before my stomach was finally filled. One of the best meals of my life, I might add," Tarlanc laughed, remembering the taste of the stew.

"Tarlanc," Elfhild interjected, "no food has quite the flavor as that eaten after going without. How well we know! The food you served us at your table was the first real meal we had in days, and indeed none had ever tasted finer!"

"Some meals are truly momentous and live in our memories, while others we would just as soon forget," Tarlanc nodded.

"Please go on," Elffled urged. "With this talk of food, I find I am becoming hungry again!"

"Elffled," the old man smiled, "the two of you packed an abundance of provender, bringing all the bread that I had baked, a goodly portion of dried meat and fruit, honey, jam, spices, salt, beans and lentils. Go to the pack and help yourselves to whatever you might fancy!"

"Might I bring either of the two of you something?" Rising to her feet, Elffled brushed off her skirt and looked down at Tarlanc and then to her sister.

"Nothing for me. I am too eager to hear this story and am not thinking about food," Elfhild replied while Tarlanc asked for some dried beef, a piece of bread and a spoonful of jam. Elffled was soon back with the requested items and looked eagerly to the old miller while he slowly chewed his food.

"Strength to continue," he grinned. "Now where was I?"

"You had just eaten two bowls of stew," Elfhild reminded him.

"Ah, yes. One of the best meals of my life - but I already told you that. After I had finished eating, Wedri and Ahãma, their dark eyes sparkling with the reflection of the fire, glanced at each other and then at me. A stern look upon his face, Wedri demanded to know why I was following their caravan. I informed him of all that had befallen me, and asked him to show a poor boy kindness.

"'So, lad, you have run away in fear of your father and have come to us seeking protection.' Wedri looked at me critically. 'There is no place for you in our camp, and you are not welcome here. You are a foreigner and not of our blood. The matter is concluded. Leave now and go your way in peace!'

"His wife, a very beautiful woman with kind dark eyes, long sable hair, tawny skin, and the whitest teeth I have ever seen, shook her head and frowned. 'No, Wedri, he is only a youth! Let him stay!'

"'It is impossible,' he glared back at her, and then began speaking in what I later learned was the ancient tongue of the Randirrim. They began to argue loudly, with much furious head shaking, finger pointing, arm waving and shaking of fists by both of them. His dark face was infused with so much angry blood that it seemed almost black. Her eyes flashed angrily, sparkling like faceted jewels in the firelight, punishing him with her fierce gaze. Other times, she would turn away from him in disgust or look up to heaven in frustration. Each one was so angry that I thought they might come to blows. Finally their voices lowered, and Wedri rose to his feet. Without looking at his wife, he spat into the fire in disgust and stomped away.

"'Should I leave?' I asked, turning to Ahãma. 'It seems apparent that your husband does not want me to remain.'

"'He means nothing, so do not pay attention to him! He just likes to argue!' Her voice irritated, she waved her hands in the air. 'I talked him into letting you stay, but be on your best behavior, Gondorian, and try to keep out of his way for a few days. You will do fine,' she told me in a softer tone as she took my hand, turned it over and glanced at my palm. 'Calluses,' she chuckled. 'You have worked hard.' Turning to Pere and Meri, she told them, 'Burn his clothes and fetch some of your own for him to wear. Since his father might come back looking for him, he will ride in our wain by day, venturing out only by night.'

"Later in the family's wain, the brothers donated some of their old clothes to me, which, though serviceable, were far more flamboyant and gaudy than any Gondorian would ever consider wearing. After I had put on their clothing - a pair of baggy blue trousers and a very good pair of black leather boots from Pere; a bright yellow and white striped shirt, a black embroidered vest, and a dilapidated hat decorated with colorful crocheted circles from Meri - I stood for their inspection, thinking to myself that I needed only a floppy cap adorned with bells to resemble a jester.

"'How do I look?' I asked dubiously.

"'Oh, I would say that you are... impressive,' Pere remarked as he walked around me.

"'Quite handsome,' Meri agreed. 'The girls will think he is quite the marvelous young bull.'

"I am not dressing like this to impress the girls. I just want to fit in amongst you!' I replied, becoming irritated at what they said.

"Pere put his arm around my shoulder. 'You can never do that, my friend, but if you stay quiet amongst strangers, possibly you will evade detection. Perhaps you can pretend to be a mute.'

"Meri walked over and slapped me on the back. 'Yes, a mute! Then you will blend right in!'

"So that is how I joined the Randirrim." Tarlanc reached his hand down to pat Haun on his head as the mastiff groaned in his sleep. "I doubt very much that you girls know anything about these wanderers, but I will tell you that once you have been able to gain their confidence, there are no people any finer or more noble.

"During that first week with them, I remained hidden in the wain by day, hating the confinement and rejoicing when at last my freedom arrived. I should not complain too much of my seclusion, though, for in the evening, many of the tribe would gather around a large campfire. There, they sat around the fire, singing, laughing, joking, exchanging tales and watching the dancing of the lovely dark-eyed girls and the handsome young men." Tarlanc's eyes grew moist as the memories surged through his mind.

"By the end of the week, I was no longer required to remain in the tent by day. Wedri, though, still spoke little to me and was only grudgingly tolerating my presence. As Ahãma had advised me, I kept out of his way as much as possible. Meri and Pere had accepted me as a comrade, enjoying teasing me far too much, I thought. Ahãma would talk to me sometimes at the supper meal and seemed to be growing fond of me. Tabahaza, a shy girl, seldom spoke to me, keeping mostly with either her mother or with the other young girls of the tribe. I did think several times that I caught her looking at me from under her long dark eyelashes, but whenever I looked at her, she would turn away.

"Wedri was a blacksmith by trade and he had taught his sons that skill, beginning when they were young boys. Soon after I had arrived with them, Wedri informed me that if I wanted to stay, I must be able to carry my own weight. Suggesting to him that perhaps he might teach me the skills of a farrier, my pride was stung when he looked me over as though I had green skin. 'I have no time to be bothered with an ignorant foreigner!' Spitting out a long stream of spittle on the ground, he laughed uproariously. When his laughter had spent its course, he told me that if his sons had enough patience to deal with a stupid oaf, that I could help them with their tasks.

"When I talked to Meri and Pere later, they raised my spirits by convincing me that they were certain that their father would relent sooner or later. In the meantime, they said they were delighted to have me. I soon understood what they meant when they took their ease, lounging about and watching me as I fed and watered the family horses."

"'Tarlanc, you have a natural gift with horses.' I caught Meri's surreptitious wink at Pere.

"'Indeed he does. The horses have certainly taken to him,' Pere grinned.

"'Aye, brother. Now that he has finished that, what do you say we allow him to fetch the water for the cooking and drinking? He is such a big, strong fellow.'

"'A superb idea, and after he completes that task, I am sure we can find something else for him to do.' With knowing looks at each other, the brothers kept me well occupied until suppertime.

"Covering twenty miles over the next two days, the caravan finally made camp at the next village, which had been built along the side of the Great West Road. Before my taskmasters had a chance to set me to work caring for the horses that evening, Ahãma walked over to me and led me aside. She took my hand in her light brown one, looked into my face with those deep, soul-reaching eyes, and told me in a sad voice that her brother Warasija had become ill during the day. If only I could help his wife and young son set up their tent, she would be in my debt. When I looked into those luminous dark eyes of hers, I could have denied her nothing. Pere and Meri were silent, but from the crestfallen expressions upon their faces, I could tell that they were disappointed that they had lost me as their horse tender.

"When I returned to my own wagon, Wedri was waiting outside the wain. 'You, foreign boy,' he pointed a thumb at me, 'I maybe now give you a chance, if you are not too weak to do it. In the morning, you will assist my sons in moving my supplies from my forge wagon and help them set up the equipment.' Though his face was frowning and his voice was little more than a deep, low growl, I sensed that perhaps he was finally taking my measure and did not find me so lacking as he had first suspected. Still, he wrinkled his nose as though some excrement had offended his nostrils. Shrugging his shoulders, he looked at me before turning and stalking back to the campfire. I bowed in respect as he passed.

"Wedri owned a portable forge which he transported in a small cart pulled by two horses. Besides the bellows, anvil, and coal box, there were kegs of horseshoes and nails, chests containing spare parts for the wains, hardware for harnesses, hammers, pincers, rasps and shoeing knives, water buckets, and all the other necessary tools used in blacksmithing. When the forge was set up the next morning, it was my job to keep it supplied with coal. The morning was a warm one, and whenever I wiped my brow, I would smear coal dust all over my face. With a sense of amusement, I thought of how this was a perfect disguise, for I doubted that even my mother could recognize me under the thick layer of grime.

"We stayed in that village for two weeks and then traveled southward. By the middle of September, the caravan had reached Minas Tirith. The city was a regular stopping point in the spring on the Randirrim's trek northward and then again on the return to the south in the autumn. Being a village youth, I marveled at the sight of the great city and gawked like any bumpkin when Meri and Pere showed me the sights." With a faraway look on his face, Tarlanc halted in the telling of his tale and tapped his fingers on his knee. "Minas Tirith, great city, the world lost an irreplaceable gem when it fell. Now serpents and lizards tread the streets where once walked fine lords and beautiful ladies." He sighed heavily and then continued.

"Although its people lived in perpetual dread and trepidation of the Dark Enemy who lived on the other side of the Mountains of Shadow, and though they often looked more to the past than the present, still at that time the capital was a magnificent place. Upon my first sight of the famed city, I was in awe of the strong white walls and the Citadel, the gleaming spire pointing to heaven. Knowing how Meri and Pere loved to torment me, I kept my excitement to myself, remarking indifferently that perhaps we might enter the city gates.

"'Yes, do that will, you?' Pere's merry voice answered. 'You think you are quite the strong fellow.'

"'We will wait right here and watch you.' Meri exchanged a mischievous glance with his twin.

"'All right, you two, out with it! I know you well enough by now that there is something up your sleeves!' I demanded, becoming impatient with them for I knew that they were planning one of their jokes.

"'Oh, nothing,' Pere looked up at the Tower, 'only that the people here have a low opinion of us, and if you go inside the city, you will find your welcome will be unenthusiastic.'

"'Aye, rather cool I might add,' came Meri's cheerful voice matter-of-factly. 'They think we are thieves.'

"'And are you?' I questioned, wondering what would be their reply.

"'Only the best,' Pere replied, smiling.

"'We are Randirrim after all. It is a tradition. We would never want to disappoint anyone. If we did not steal something, our reputation would be destroyed,' Mere added smugly in a boastful, arrogant voice as he gazed at the tops of the buildings on the highest hill.

"'Why do you not just walk in right now and steal something?' I challenged, never believing for an instant that they would. 

"'All right,' Pere shrugged his shoulders. 'We will, but you wait here. We cannot have a foreign boy, a novice who knows nothing, tagging along and jeopardizing our chances. You would probably get caught.'

"I watched as they walked boldly through the open city gates and waved at the guards. The men gave them disapproving glances in return but still allowed them to pass through. Waiting for about an hour, I began to fear that they had been caught in their thieving when I saw them ambling back through the city gates. Meri gave the guards such a flashing white-toothed smile that one of them had to catch himself before he smiled back.

"'I see you were not successful,' I commented smugly.

"'Not at all,' Meri answered. 'You will see when we return to camp.'

"When we had gained the safety of the wain, Pere drew a fine dagger with its sheath from under his tunic and placed it upon the table. 'I am not done yet. There is more. Do not be so impatient.' Then to my amazed eyes, he brought out a bolt of cotton fabric. 'Mother has been needing a new dress,' he explained. 'Now, Meri, can you do better?'

"'Certainly,' he replied disdainfully as he took out a dagger of equal worth, then added a finely woven woolen dress, two shirts and a pair of breeches to the collection. 'When the merchant was seeing to another customer, I slipped the goods into my tunic. He never suspected a thing,' he explained proudly. 'If Mother or Tabahaza does not want the dress, they can always sell it next spring when we return to Harad.' They both grinned at me, their pearly teeth flashing in the light of the lamp on the wall.

"Lasses, though the city was extraordinary, I was always hesitant about entering it with my disreputable friends. Before we at last left for the South, we finally reached an agreement. I would wait at the doorway of the shops while they went inside to conduct their chicanery. Always I feared that at any moment that a merchant would find them out and report them to the guards.

"When night brought the cessation of all labor and I lay upon my bedroll upon the ground and looked at the stars, I thought how strange had been my first day at Minas Tirith, that great city which is now fallen. The next day, I turned fifteen far from my family and all that I had known, living among strangers and learning the artful skill of thieving."


	16. On Becoming a Man

Chapter Written by Angmar

Tarlanc brought the wineskin back to his lips, drank deeply and then wiped his mouth off with his sleeve. "Lasses, I trust that I have not put you to sleep with my long tale." Turning his head first to the right and then to the left, he looked questioningly into the face of each girl.

"Oh, no, not at all," Elffled quickly assured him.

"No, Tarlanc, I insist that you continue," Elfhild implored. "I am not at all sleepy, but you have put in a very long day. Perhaps you might need rest?" She swatted away a small gnat which had been attracted to the odor of Tarlanc's wine.

"Nay, lass, not at all." Corking the wineskin, he placed it down on the blanket by his leg. "Some say that as you get older, you require less sleep. Since I am nearly a hundred, perhaps I do not need to sleep at all," he chuckled wryly. Of course, saying that it was unnecessary for him to sleep was an exaggeration, but Tarlanc always derived a good bit of satisfaction at the surprised look on others' faces when he casually told them his great age.

"One hundred!" Elfhild's mouth dropped open. "You look much younger!"

"A mere twig still green on the branch," he laughed, his eyes crinkling up with amusement at the slightly naughty meaning of his words. "Not entirely chaste and pristine in intent," he thought, "but not exactly prurient, either. Surely not even these two sheltered maids would be offended at such a mild impropriety." Since neither seemed to have noticed or paid any particular attention to his remark, he assumed that they were either both more innocent than he had first thought, or were ignoring his remark out of politeness.

"You must remember, lasses, that the Gondorians live a long span of time and therefore age less quickly. Most of my foresires attained venerable old ages." As Tarlanc spoke, Haun stood up. After yawning and stretching, the dog stuck his muzzle between Tarlanc's outstretched hands for a pat. "Had not heard this story, had you, sir?" Tarlanc asked him as he scratched between the dog's ears.

Elffled reached out hesitantly to pat Haun, and after Tarlanc had steadied him with a soft word, Elffled was overjoyed when the mastiff allowed her to lay her hand gently upon his head. "Do you think he likes me, Tarlanc?" she asked hopefully.

"Aye, lass," he nodded. "Haun is a good judge of character. Now you two become friends while I resume telling my story!"

"Yes, please!" Elffled smiled as she stroked the unresisting mastiff's head.

"Well, lasses, after the tribe had camped at the outskirts of Minas Tirith for two weeks, they set off for the south near the end of October. Our journey was made in admirable time, and within a fortnight, we had reached our destination - Pelargir. The broad plains near the city had been the Randirrim's winter camping ground for years, favored by the tribe for its mild climate and warm winters. The large inland port attracted commerce from many different lands, and it was fascinating to a country boy like me to sit on the dock and watch ships sail by with their colorful flags unfurled in the breeze. Pelargir was a thriving, prosperous city, home to many merchants who dealt in both import and export; warehouse owners; craftsmen; ship builders; and all the myriad of trades, crafts and occupations which attend the operation of any large port city.

"The men of the tribe employed themselves with making jewelry, furniture and other crafts, while the women were in charge of selling the goods. These they marketed from the open backs of their wains, displayed in small tents or stalls, and even in some cases, sold from door to door in the city. While the Randirrim were not completely accepted by the people of the city, they were tolerated as long as they stayed out of trouble. Or as Mere and Peri were fond of saying, 'You do not get caught.' The twins certainly followed their own advice, for never as long as I was with them, were they ever apprehended, though they did get into some tight situations.

"During the winter, Warasija, the brother of Ahãma, died, leaving his widow, Hebeli, and their grown son, Dezi, bereft. Dezi was a simpleton, incapable of learning any skills more complicated than what a small child could master, and so his father's trade of jewelry-making died with him. The young man was a huge, gawky fellow with a wide, broad face; dull, black lackluster eyes; fleshy red lips; a large, bulbous nose; a neck thick as a bull's; wide, powerful shoulders; massive, brawny arms; a gut as tight and well-muscled as the rest of him; and legs as big around as small trees resting upon a solid foundation of wide, strong feet. In all of my life, I have never seen a man stronger than he was.

"Hebeli and Dezi would have fallen on grievous times had not Ahãma and Wedri invited the widow to combine her resources with their own. It was decided that when spring came, Hebeli would drive her own wagon, while Meri would assist her son in caring for their stock and helping around the camp. I was just as glad that it would be Meri who would be helping his aunt and cousin, rather than me. While there had never been any trouble between Dezi and me, I had never felt at ease around him. Occasionally he would have a tantrum after his mother had withheld some food or object from him. Though he would never become violent or threatening, he would go away by himself, babbling and muttering as great quantities of spittle and phlegm ran from his mouth, dribbling over his chin and running down his neck. There he would stand for hours in the woods or some quiet place, rocking and swaying from side to side, and never seeming to become fatigued.

"Though he could learn little else except simple things such as sorting beads and jewelry fasteners into containers, there was one thing at which Dezi was an expert, and that was wrestling. He loved the sport so much that he had submitted to the rules held in common by the other wrestlers over all of Gondor. He had been forced to concede to this requirement after his refusal to abide by the rules had resulted in his injuring a man so severely that the fellow had almost died. After that, Dezi had not only been able to master the rules, but he was able to quote them word for word. Often he would be found by himself, reciting the rules to a bird or squirrel perched in a tree, or demonstrating the various moves and holds with pieces of rope and sticks.

"Other than Warasija's death, the winter passed without incident, and the spring had returned almost before I was aware of it. Once again we were on the road north, but Wedri had decided that we would not pass through my village that year, for it was far too risky for me. We spent the rest of the summer traveling in Anórien, where we usually received permission to camp on the outskirts of hamlets. These times of commerce between the villagers and the Randirrim provided the main opportunities for the tribe to earn a livelihood, for seldom did anyone trust them enough to hire them for seasonal labor, though they did welcome the chance to purchase goods from them.

"Besides selling baskets, furniture, jewelry, leather goods and other merchandise at these gatherings, the men and women of the tribe offered certain other services to the townspeople. Perhaps when I tell you of what these things were, they will come as a shock to you. Some of the women and a few of the men were gifted in divining the future by looking at the lines upon the palms of hands, or inspecting the spent leaves of tea, or employing balls of crystal or cards with strange drawings and designs upon them, and other methods even more bizarre than these. Perhaps it is better that I should not detail these latter ones to you.

"While their mothers and aunts earned money by looking into the future, many of the maidens would dance for coins thrown to them by the village men, who were eager to see them dance. These dances would be strange and foreign to you, and I have been told that they originated long ago in the east from whence the Randirrim originally hailed. Wearing bright, gaudy clothing and gleaming metal jewelry, the women twirled and shook their bodies, moving in ways that the staid Gondorians thought were scandalous. The young bachelors evidently were not bothered by the poor reputation of the Randirric dances, for they were frequent visitors at these exhibitions. I had heard that sometimes the married men would sneak away to watch the dances, but I would wager that if their wives ever found out, these indignant matrons would banish their husbands from their beds if they did not resort to physical violence first," Tarlanc chuckled.

"Did you ever attend any?" Elffled asked mischievously.

"You did not think I would miss them, did you?" He cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his nose at her.

"Somehow I did not think so," Elffled giggled.

"Before I finally left the Randirrim, I had even learned a few of the dances myself." Seeing the surprised expressions on the twins' faces, he added, "Even had my future read several times. I wanted to know what would happen to me, whether it would be good or ill."

"What did the fortune teller say?" Elfhild asked, curious.

"Hebeli, Warasija's widow, was the first to read my palm, but later Ahãma verified what she had said, by mixing sand with wine and stirring it with a stick and telling me what the swirling patterns meant. I never really questioned their words, and many of the things they told me have come to pass."

"What were they, Tarlanc?" Slightly alarmed, Elffled put her hand on his arm.

"They said that when it came to important matters, I would always take the path which I had never chosen, but take it I surely would, whether I wanted it or not. That is the way it has been all these years with little variance. My life has been far too long to tell you all that happened to me, however."

"Tell us something, please," Elfhild pleaded.

"Something, but not much more. It is growing late, and the candle is burning lower. I had lived with these people for three years and grew to manhood among them, finally being adopted by them when I was eighteen. There were no happier years of my life than these, and if things had not happened as they did, I would probably still be among them." Tarlanc's brows furrowed solemnly and his eyes grew sad with a faraway look in them.

"Tarlanc, dear Tarlanc! I sense something sad from your past! If it bothers you, I entreat you not to tell us." As she looked at him intently, Elffled fretted and worried her bottom lip.

"Lass, while the hurt is still there, many years have passed, and now it is just a small hurt. You remember I told you a little about Tabahaza, whom I said was a shy young girl. Over the years, we found ourselves more and more in each other's company, and I began to grow to love her. We would find ways to be together, sometimes riding beside each other when we traveled; other times leaving the camp and walking alone through the woods and fields.

"Then one night when we were sitting on the banks of a small stream with the moonlight streaming down upon us - surely a night meant for loving - I became bold, took her in my arms and kissed her for the first time. We were both left breathless with the passion of that first kiss, and I knew that this was the only girl whom I would ever love. With her warm, young body in my arms, I completely lost my reason and kept pressing her for more and more. Before the night was over, both of us had tasted passion's wine to its sweet depths. When I at last I came to my senses and realized how I had compromised her, I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. I vowed to her that the very next day I would ask her father to let me take her as my wife in whatever ceremony tribal traditions prescribed.

"The next morning, when I went to ask Wedri for her hand, a cloud of despair was hanging over my heart, for I knew that he would refuse to allow me ever to wed Tabahaza. I was a foreigner, not of the Randirrim. Therefore, it came as little surprise to me - though the pain was no less devastating - when he refused. His rejection was harsh and scornful, and he laughed in my face. As I left the wain, he added, still laughing, 'No foreign stripling will ever be my son-in-law! Never be fool enough to ask me again, boy!'

"I had not gone many steps when Ahãma caught up with me, slipping into stride beside me. 'Do not pay attention to Wedri! He is a big fool, never means what he says!' She was a high-strung woman, given to strong emotions, always motioning and gesticulating with her hands as she spoke. My face turned crimson in embarrassment, for I was sure the whole village would hear her. She suddenly stepped in front of me, grabbed me by the shoulders and stared up into my face. 'You silly boy! Of course, Wedri wants a strong, white-skinned boy like you for son-in-law. You make beautiful children with Tabahaza! They will all grow to be strong, big handsome people, and he will be proud of them! Insist that the marriage was his idea in the first place! Just wait a few days before asking him again.'

"'But he said never--' I started to interrupt her.

"'Hush, boy!' she scolded me. 'Do not talk when your mother-in-law is speaking!'

"Many of their neighbors were milling around us, laughing and smiling and adding their own comments on the advantages and disadvantages of the union. When I tried to excuse myself, she pulled my face down to hers and kissed me once on each cheek. Giving a hasty excuse that I had something to do, I pulled out of her embrace and sped away to the sound of the uproarious laughter of Ahãma and her friends. Some time later I learned that after I had gone, Ahãma went to Wedri and impressed upon him the good sense of having another strong back in the family. Faced with this irrefutable logic, he put aside all of his opposition, and agreed with Ahãma. The wedding was set to be held that autumn when we arrived at Pelargir for the winter.

"A few days after the betrothal was announced to the tribe, I was taking the horses to the stream for watering when I thought I heard heavy steps behind me. As I turned around, I grimaced when I saw Dezi lumbering along behind me, his long arms swinging, his huge thick legs striding purposely along. Wishing no trouble with him, I waved at him and then continued leading the horses to the stream. Just as the animals dipped their muzzles into the cool water, I felt the presence of someone right behind me. From the sound of the person's raspy breathing, I knew it must be Dezi. A heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder, and as I was spun around, the reins slipped from my fingers.

"I was determined not to show him my fear, and to bluster my way through any mischief he might have planned. 'Ho, Dezi. Came to watch me water the horses, did you?'

"A bristling maelstrom of fury, Dezi stood there in front of me. 'No,' he growled, 'come to warn you.' With those terse words, his hands shot forward, his meaty fingers grabbing the shoulders of my shirt. I gasped as he swung me up into the air to face him.

"'Warn me of what, Dezi? Stop playing now. You might tear my shirt, and I have only two!' As I looked into his dull-witted eyes and breathed the rank stench of his breath, I had the impression that the game he was playing could be lethal.

"'Who cares about your shirt? You will not marry Tabahaza! You are not worthy of her! Maybe I will break the bones of your face so you will be ugly, and she will not like you anymore!' As though I weighed no more than a child's rag doll, Dezi held me in the air, the soles of my boots an inch or so above the ground.

"'Is that what you want to do to me, Dezi? I do not think I will like that very much,' I taunted him. Though Dezi was incredibly strong, he was not particularly fast, and his dulled eye did not catch the quick movement of my hands as they darted towards his face. He bellowed in rage as I jabbed my thumbs into his eyes as far as they would go. Screaming in his pain, he flung his hands to his eyes, releasing his hold on my shoulders. I was ready for him, landing easily on my feet. No sooner had they touched the ground than I brought up my knee and slammed him hard in the groin.

"'You have ruined me, you bastard!' he shrieked as he almost bent double in pain.

"'I do not think so,' I sneered as I landed a kick at Dezi's tortured loins. 'Maybe now you are!' I laughed as he doubled up and sank to the ground like a felled tree. As he lay there writhing, I quickly took the cord that served as my belt and tied his wrists and ankles together, pulling his hands and feet up until he resembled a crescent moon. Then I went to find the horses, which had trotted away to safety during the fight. Feeling quite proud of myself, I mounted one of the animals, leading the others behind me, and headed off at a gallop for the camp."


	17. The Mare

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Tarlanc, what a terrible experience that was for you! You were so fortunate that he did not kill you in his mad folly!" Elfhild's voice was shaky.

"I was so frightened when you were telling about that dreadful man that I could hardly sit still! But, oh, how romantic! Tabahanza must have seen you as her hero!" Fully immersed in tales of romance and derring-do, a sighing Elffled clasped her hands together and brought them to her cheek.

His brows furrowing, Tarlanc looked at her askance. "At the time, I did not think there was anything romantic about it! But now," he scratched his jaw reflectively, "in retrospect, perhaps, perhaps... to someone young."

"What happened next?" Elfhild asked excitedly.

"After riding back into the camp, I explained what had happened, and summed up by relating that, though I had come to no real harm, Dezi could just as easily have killed me. Attempting to word the suggestion in the most diplomatic manner possible, I advised that it would be the best idea to take Dezi to one of the city's houses of healing. Certain that they would understand the real meaning of my suggestion - that they should transport the dangerous madman to an asylum and put him under irons - I was taken aback when they patiently informed me that 'the Randirrim take care of their own with no help from outsiders.'

"After calling an outdoor conclave to which they invited me, the elders decided that, while Dezi's behavior was inexcusable, he had meant no harm. According to their views, his boisterous, high-strung spirit had simply gotten out of hand. It irritated me greatly that some of Dezi's kinsmen expressed concern that possibly I had severely injured him. Considering the fact that he was much larger and stronger than I, the headmen quickly discounted the idea as being unlikely, although I noticed several of them eying me disapprovingly.

"Beginning to question whether I was regarded so highly among the Randirrim as I had previously believed, I found the meeting left me dumbfounded and shaken. Although I assured them that Dezi was none the worse for the wear, the elders felt it was the best wisdom to err on the side of caution, and so a driver and cart - along with an escort of his kinsmen and friends - were sent to haul him back to the camp in the event that he had been hurt.

"As the meeting concluded and the men were walking to the lines where their horses were tied, Dezi's mother ran up to us. Her face convulsed with anger, tears streaming down her cheeks, the hysterical woman screamed and spat out a string of curses at me. Before I realized her intent, she had stabbed at my eyes with her long, pointed fingernails, raking my face and leaving red trails of blood flowing down my cheeks. She lunged for me again, but I dodged away and caught her wrists with my hands, holding her back at arm's length. The Randirrim who had gathered around us murmured darkly, and I sensed that many of them were on her son's side against me." Tarlanc sighed heavily, letting the air whistle through his lips, "I doubt you know this, but Randirric women are noted for being hot-blooded and volatile." Becoming accustomed to his moods, Elfhild sensed that he was in need of a drink. She held up the wineskin and looked at him questioningly. With a nod of his head, he took the skin from her hands.

"I was relieved from my embarrassing situation by the arrival of Ahãma and some of the other women, who, after talking with her a while, led a sobbing Hebeli away to her tent. Seeing Tabahanza at the edge of the crowd, I made my way over to her through the disbursing throng. There was no need to wonder about her loyalties, for they were written all over her sweet, gentle face. Taking her to my own wain, I sat down on a bench and related my story while she cleaned the wounds dealt to me by Hebeli and put salve on them. With only time for a quick, though passionate, kiss, I left her to saddle my horse and join the 'rescue party.' 

"When we came upon Dezi, we found him where I had left him, lying on his face and still bound. Babbling to himself, he was as gentle as a babe when the men released the ropes which bound his ankles together, righting him so he could sit up. While he smiled at them, the elders interrogated him about what had transpired between us that afternoon. When my charges against him were explained, Dezi looked each of his questioners in the eye, an expression of great hurt upon on his meek face. In his imbecility, Dezi seemed totally artless and with no guile whatsoever. Compared to his trusting openness, I am sure that my allegations against him must have seemed cruel and harsh. 

"The change in his behavior was amazing to me. How could a man who had been a raging maniac less than an hour before have gone through such an amazing transformation? Even considering his now placid behavior, I had supposed that on the ride back to the camp, Dezi would be tied even more securely with ropes and possibly chains. Instead, the elders, even Wedri, concluded that the imbecile had simply suffered another one of his unfortunate fits, which had passed as they always did. Rather than leaving him tied, the head elder cut away his ropes himself!

"Meri, whom I had always considered possessed a streak of sarcastic mischievousness about him, took a piece of hard candy from the pouch at his belt and tossed it up into the air. As it fell towards the ground, a freed Dezi leaped up and caught it in his mouth like a trained dog, while the crowd applauded his cleverness. The spectacle, though, had not yet concluded. When the wagon was brought up for him to board, Dezi's face fairly seemed to glow with excitement. With an exclamation of wild delight, he capered across the distance to the van and bounded up to the seat beside Meri in one leap. Most of the men smiled approvingly at his antics.

"Disgusted, I said nothing but sat my horse silently, not caring if anyone read the look of anger which darkened my face. I expected Dezi at least to express his resentment that I had bested him in a fight and bound him like a captured animal. Instead, whenever his gaze turned to me, Dezi rolled his large, thick red lips over each other, making smacking and popping sounds with his mouth. Drooling slightly, he grinned broadly like the fool that he was. Each one of his escapades would set his companions into laughter. Inwardly seething in a hot rage, I was convinced that he was mocking me and making me appear as a fool in front of the crowd. No matter how much stronger he was than I, had he had been of a sound mind, I would have challenged him to a duel right there.

"On the trip back, he sat beside Meri on the driver's seat. There, he constantly attempted to draw attention to himself. First he would wave his arms and stamp his feet, and next he would contort his face into bizarre grimaces, while imitating the squawks, honks, growls, neighings, bleats, moos, and roars of various animals. Sometimes he thumbed his nose at me while flapping his arms, deliberately trying to infuriate me. These antics had Meri in wild paroxysms of laughter, and his body shook with hilarity until the tears poured down his cheeks. I concluded that Meri was almost as stupid as Dezi.

"Waiting while the procession led by Meri and Dezi passed ahead of me on the road, I fell in behind the group. We had not been riding long when Wedri rode back and drew his horse up beside me. Keeping his voice low, he told me in the best of good humor, 'You Gondorians are far too serious, my boy! You should learn to laugh more. While it is true that my wife's nephew is not the brightest, surely he is good-natured and harmless. The poor fellow's mind is but that of a small child. Make allowances for his frailties and pay no attention to him when he becomes a little boisterous in his play. I am sure you will take my advice to heart.' With that, Wedri slapped me across the shoulders, dug his heels into his horse's sides, and trotted up to ride beside Meri's wain.

"After returning to the camp, I watched as Dezi alighted from the wain in front of his mother's tent. The lout was soon embraced in his mother's loving arms to the cheers of all the tribe. Not able to watch the spectacle, I dismounted my horse in silence and led him away to be tended.

"In the days that followed, the camp soon fell back into its familiar routine, but still I suspected that more than a little evil lurked in Dezi's ponderous skull. In spite of the reassurances by the elders that Dezi was harmless, from then on, I kept my dagger constantly honed and always with me. I found myself starting at small noises during the night, and often I felt that I was being followed. I looked forward to the wedding both with anticipation and no little trepidation."

"What happened then?" asked Elfhild. If she had been sitting on a chair, she would have been on the edge of her seat, her hands gripping the edge.

"Many things." As Tarlanc shook his head, the light from the candle played over the hollows and ridges of his angular face, turning one feature into a high prominence while casting other areas into shadowy valleys. "During the past three years, Wedri had consented to allow Pere and Meri to teach me blacksmithing. While it was not a trade that I would have chosen, the profession provided me with an adequate living, more than enough to support the wife and family which I hoped that I would have someday. From before dawn until dark, I worked beside Wedri and his sons in their forge, eventually developing the great muscles of a smith and the calluses of honest toil. Seeing this old frame of mine, you would not believe it now, would you, lasses?" He flexed a biceps and looked at it sadly.

"You are a fine looking gentleman!" Elffled protested. "I know you must be quite strong to operate a mill."

The old man beamed at her, cleared his throat modestly, and went on. "You are too generous in your estimation. While I labored during the day, my beloved Tabahanza tended to her craft of weaving baskets with her mother, and sewing her wedding dress with the other women. This mysterious garment was forbidden to my vision, but from the few things which she would intimate to me, I knew that it must be an elaborate concoction of colorful embroidery and ruffles." The old miller smiled to himself as he thought back to that day.

"As the day of the wedding approached, I constantly thought of the time when I would take Tabahanza as my wife. I had seen Randirric weddings before, and knew them to be gay and festive occasions, celebrated exuberantly by everyone attending. With only a few days before the wedding, I could barely keep my mind upon my work at the forge. Totally occupied with my constant ruminations on my approaching marriage, I became careless and smashed a finger when I was repairing the axle of a wain. In pain and in no mood for work, I left early.

"When I reached my tent, I stripped my sweat-soaked clothing from my body, washed my face, arms and chest from a bucket of water and then finished by pouring a bucket of water over my head and shoulders. Donning a clean set of clothing, I combed my wet hair, and considered myself entirely presentable to see my lady. Lasses, perhaps you might be offended by the Randirrim's ideas of cleanliness, but they do not hold a clean body as a high virtue. Being a nomadic people with no permanent dwellings, they have little opportunity to bathe regularly, taking advantage of water only when they can find it. There should be no illusions in your minds that I smelled like a garden in spring, but to the rest of the Randirrim, I was perhaps a little too personally meticulous for their thinking." Tarlanc chuckled at his gentle witticism. "In other words, I was clean enough, but not too clean." At that the sisters giggled.

"When I went over to her family's wain to inquire for her, I learned from her mother that she had gone walking out towards the city. Disappointed, I mounted my horse and went out to look for her. Soon I saw her on the side of the road, sitting under the generous branches of a sycamore tree.

"'What are you doing out here?' I asked sharply as I dismounted my horse and came over to sit down beside her. The agitation in my voice was all too evident, and she looked up at me questioningly. 

"'I was only out walking,' she explained. I could tell from the tenseness in her voice that she was not telling the entire truth.

"'You should have taken someone with you,' I scolded. 'What if Dezi had followed you? We both know that he is infatuated with you, and with his weak mind, he might take it into his head to do you some harm.'

"'He did follow me.' She dropped her head and studied her fingers, turning them over and examining them one by one.

"'What happened?' I asked in alarm as I grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face me. 

"'Nothing! Stop that! You are hurting me!' she exclaimed as she went stiff in my arms.

"'I asked you what happened!' I demanded.

"'Dezi is my first cousin on my mother's side. We have grown up together, and he is devoted to me! I know what you think of him, Tarlanc.' She tried to calm me by rubbing her soft hand against my cheek, but I moved my face aside. 'He will not hurt me, no matter what you think.'

"'What did he want?'

"'To talk and bring me this bouquet of daisies. Is that so wicked?' She held up a wilted handful of wildflowers. 'He is always bringing me something or doing some little kindness for me. What is the harm in it? Nothing!' I could tell that this subject was upsetting her, but stubbornly I intended to press her on it.

"'Do not go walking by yourself ever again! No matter that he is your cousin, I cannot trust a man who tried to kill me. Either wait until I finish my work for the day, and I will go with you, or ask one of your other relatives to go with you. I am only concerned about your safety. His mind is so unsound that I worry constantly, fearing that he will go insane and turn on you!'

"'Do you not see that this rejection would hurt his feelings? Please do not think so unkindly of him! He and I have talked over this, and he has promised me that he will never attempt anything so foolish again as challenging you!' Tabahanza turned pleading, tear-filled eyes up to me, and my heart melted at the sight of her.

"'We will see,' I capitulated and ended the discussion of Dezi with a kiss upon her sweet lips. We talked no more of the matter, for when lovers are alone together, there are far better things to discuss... and to do.'" Tarlanc smiled and called Haun over to be petted.

"Tarlanc, you have not finished, have you? You will tell us about the wedding, will you not?" Elfhild wondered if perhaps the old miller was growing weary. Though perhaps it was selfish to think such, she hoped that he would postpone sleep to finish the tale.

"Why, certainly, I am going to tell you about the wedding! I was only trying to recollect everything that happened, and at the same time giving Haun a bit of attention. He is a demanding fellow, you know, and a very good friend." Tarlanc's excuse about gathering his thoughts was an untruth, for he could remember almost every detail about his wedding. However, even after all these years, there were aspects about the event that still embarrassed him. At least he had one more tale to go ere he told about the wedding, and by then he could find the words to phrase certain elements in the most discreet manner possible. 

"Aye, he is a good friend," Elfhild agreed and hoped that Tarlanc would go on with the story.

"There is more to tell before I relate the story of the wedding. As I had surmised, Dezi had been deeply in love with Tabahanza since they were children. Often he had proposed marriage to her, but she certainly did not love him or want any match. Upon the day that I told you about when he had given her the chain of daisies, he had asked her yet another time. Once more she turned him down, but in a gracious way that was designed to be gentle to his feelings. Still her refusal, which was as firm as she possibly could have made it, did not penetrate his simple brain, and he began to press his suit even stronger.

"Since Tabahaza's mother and his were sisters, it was difficult for her to avoid him. Her gentle, kind heart made it impossible for her to be cruel to him, so when he would bring her flowers - their stems often crushed in his clumsy hands - she would smile and thank him for them. Always when he brought her small gifts, she was in the presence of her mother or some other woman. She never again went walking by herself after I had forbidden her. Not only did he bring her small gifts, but he would offer to help her with her weaving or other small tasks. Feeling pity for him, usually she would agree, considering that since it was in the company of her mother and his, no harm could come of it. Sometimes he would simply come by and sit with Tabahanza and boast of some small achievement or brag of his strength in wrestling.

"Three days ere the wedding, a horse fair was held upon the fields outside Pelargir. All those who were able packed up their families and rode off to the city. Dezi came there in the company of his friends, for there were always some young men and children gathered about him who admired his wrestling accomplishments or thought he was amusing. There were many fine animals on exhibit, for the horse fair drew people from all over Southern Gondor. In addition to the opportunities offered to buy, sell or trade horses, there were competitions where riders could show their horses against each other to be judged for prizes.

"That afternoon, Meri saw a fine young stallion which interested him, and was given permission by the horse trader to try the animal out in the green field below a small stand for spectators. This majestic horse was part of a lot of spirited horses imported from Harad by two brothers, local horse traders, and it was as much a novelty as anything. Dezi's gaze was riveted upon Meri and the mount, and, surrounded by his friends, he gaped at his cousin. Tabahaza and I were applauding her brother from the stands which had been built up around the area. Occasionally she would call out an encouragement to her brother or some gentle jest. This exchange between brother and sister capturing Dezi's attention, he became jealous and attempted to catch her notice. Other than a polite wave of her hand in his direction, Tabahanza's eyes were only for her brother.

"With that headstrong streak of impetuosity that so characterized him, Dezi strode over to where a young mare was tethered along the picket line. Before anyone could stop him, he had slung his hefty bulk upon one of the horses. The Randirrim nearby gathered round, murmuring in concern, for they knew that he was a poor rider. Yet the horse was good-tempered, and if any horse was suited to carry small children, inexperienced riders, and imbeciles, it was this mare. Intelligent and gentle, with a refined dished face and dainty muzzle, the horse was small in size, smaller than most at a little over 14 hands tall, and of Haradric stock, with a strong, short back which had been bred over the generations to carry even heavy riders.

Though Meri frowned and shouted at him to take care, most of the other Randirrim watching the scene did not act, for they thought that no harm would come of the situation. No one wished to make the simpleton of the tribe lose face and be humiliated, so no one attempted to pull him off the mare as they would have a wayward child. The sight of this hulking monster of a man sitting atop a horse and flopping like a sack of turnips while he bragged of how he was the best rider in all of Gondor set many of his kinsmen into peals of mirth. Others who possessed a malicious sense of humor urged him on, hoping for even more sport from the clown whom the crowd loved.

"Looking up to Tabhanza, Dezi smiled his broad, slack-jawed grin and cried, 'Tabahanza, watch this!' Slamming his thick legs against the horse's sides, he laughed as the mare surged forward in a burst of energy which shocked the crowd. Expressions of laughter turned into horrified expressions as they watched Dezi attempt to maneuver the nervous horse, sawing on the bit and tormenting her sensitive mouth as he pranced her about. Several of the men rushed forward, trying to grab the reins, but the horse, already confused and frightened, reared up and struck the air with her hooves. Dezi squealed in excitement, and when the horse came back down, he kicked her in the ribs and broke forth from the men, galloping away into the distance on the runaway horse. Shouting at him to halt, Meri streaked off after him on his steed. As soon as we could mount up, other men and I raced after them, but by this time, Dezi's terrified mare had caught the bit between her teeth and was galloping ahead, completely out of control.

"When they caught up with Dezi, they found him sitting on the ground, bawling and crying, large, fat tears streaming from his eyes, his hands clutching his leg. The mare stood nearby, her head drooping low, her right foreleg sprained and bruised from the fall which she had taken. 'Kill her! Kill her!' Dezi screamed. 'She fell and hurt Dezi! She is evil! Kill her so she can never hurt him again!'

"Upon further inspection, it was found that Dezi's leg had been broken. Wedri called for a cart to carry him back to camp. As he was helped aboard, Dezi turned his head and glared at me, as though I were the cause of all his misfortune."


	18. A Randirric Wedding

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Dezi seems like a pathetic poor soul, and so lost!" Elffled remarked sympathetically. She remembered Wini the Simple, the slow, dim-witted boy from her village, and his gentle, innocent flirtations as he clumsily tried to impress her. Dezi reminded her a lot of him, except poor Wini would never hurt a fly. For a moment, she wondered whatever had become of Wini, if he yet lived or if he had been killed in battle. Tarlanc's voice interrupted her thoughts, which was fortunate, for she felt sad dwelling upon the fates of the Riders who had gone off to war.

"Aye, Dezi was a wretched fellow," Tarlanc agreed. "But while your kind heart feels compassion, remember that his vicious streak and bullying ways, combined with his mighty strength, could easily turn him as lethal as a mad dog. Fortunately for Tabahanza and me, his injury would leave him incapacitated for almost three months, removing that threat for a while. Actually, I had spent many long hours worrying that he would do everything in his power to disrupt the wedding. I was certain that those scoundrels who called themselves his friends would bolster up his courage with liberal quantities of wine, and he would come storming into my wain on our wedding night." Agitated at the recounting of his old memories, Tarlanc stood up and began to pace, his tall, thin figure silhouetted in the candlelight. Looking up at his master in puzzlement, Haun whined softly.

"Perhaps it was petty of me, but after Dezi was injured, I actually laughed to myself. Poor feeble-minded fellow." Tarlanc shook his head. "Now I am ashamed of my callousness, but then I was just happy that he could not interfere in my wedding and turn a day of happiness into one of trouble. My mind now at peace, I could look forward to my life with Tabahanza." Since he had moved away from the light of the candle, the girls could no longer see Tarlanc's face clearly, but they caught the sadness in his voice. 

Sensing that the old man needed encouragement, Elfhild remarked, "Tarlanc, it must have been terrible to live with the fear that the giant might barge into your wedding! I can only imagine how relieved you must have been to know he could not make an appearance."

"Few were the nights that I could sleep soundly before Dezi's injury practically destroyed his leg. I am not so hypocritical to deny that I was glad when it happened! It could have been his damned neck for all I cared!" Thoughts from the past always have the power to affect people in the present, and the old man was letting his memories turn his mood sour.

Surprised at his strong reaction, Elfhild could only stare at him until a slow smile turned up the corners of her mouth and spread across her face. "You know," she remarked slyly, "I think I would have been glad, too." 

"Elfhild, you were always a sharp lass. You could have been my daughter," Tarlanc chuckled. "Now let me go on with my story, or we will be here so long that my beard will grow another inch or two before I ever finish!" Smiles of understanding on their faces, the girls went silent as they waited for him to continue. 

"When the healer came to see him, Dezi refused to allow the man into the tent. If his mother had not drugged his cake and his wine, Dezi would never have permitted his leg to be touched. The healer found that one of the bones in Dezi's calf had been fractured and that if the bone was not set, the leg would never heal correctly," Tarlanc recounted.

"'You will not hurt Dezi!' the simpleton had screamed, striking at the doctor. The man was too quick for him, and though his pride was wounded, the doctor's body was not. Mind you, I was not there, but I heard that it took four men and his mother to hold Dezi down while the healer set, splinted and bandaged his leg. Offended, the healer left Dezi to moan and whine on the cot, yelling like a babe who wanted his mother's breast. His screams could be heard all over the camp. I smiled every time I heard them, and thanked whichever benevolent Vala in the Undying Lands who had interceded on the behalf of Tabahanza and me. That said... now by the stars in Varda's sky, I will - I swear - tell you about the wedding! I know that is what you have been waiting to hear!"

Preparing for another bout of storytelling, Tarlanc inhaled deeply, but his throat seemed suddenly dry. Now that he had begun his reminiscences, he was not quite so certain if he wanted to finish them. What was he anyway? Just an old man who talked too much. Besides, he had always been a circumspect man, never wishing to embarrass anyone, and there were certain aspects in the remainder of his tale which were unsuitable for two young ladies to hear. Clearing his throat, he straightened his back and considered how best to continue.

"Before I get on with the tale, you must realize that not all folk have the same wedding customs as the Rohirrim. Why, to give you an example," he nervously drummed the fingers of his right hand on his thigh, "I have heard that among many of the tribes of the Haradrim, the fathers arrange the marriage, and the husband never sees the bride until the day of the wedding. The poor bridegroom has no idea whatsoever whether his bride is a spectacular beauty or an obese, homely dowd. You can imagine his shock when he removes her veils after the wedding and finds that she is missing a front tooth or two and has a wart on the end of her nose." The sisters giggled at that, and Tarlanc smiled, pleased that they had enjoyed his mild humor.

"The Randirrim, though, are not so restrictive. Many of the couples have grown up knowing each other from childhood. However," Tarlanc hesitated, "the Randirrim insist that the bride be, um, let me see how I shall word this..." he cleared his throat and tried to find the correct way to express a very delicate subject.

"Pure," Elfhild interjected with a giggle.

"And modest," Elffled added, tittering.

"Aye, those are exactly the words for which I was searching!" The back of Tarlanc's neck erupted in a hot flush of embarrassment which spread over his face, and he cleared his throat loudly. "After the bride and groom have been joined in marriage, there is a joyous celebration, conducted to impress the father's kinsmen, neighbors, family and friends. Unfortunately, the bride's father often finds himself going heavily into debt to pay for his daughter's wedding." Tarlanc chuckled, amused at what he considered one of the many vanities of mankind. "Then when these festivities are concluded, the guests follow the couple to the bed chambers and serenade them with love songs. With a great deal of jesting and teasing and no small amount of embarrassment to the couple, the guests see to it that they are put to bed and then leave the chamber."

"Aye, that is the way of many weddings in Rohan," Elfhild added in the hopes of encouraging the old man, who had suddenly turned shy. "Nothing at all unusual in that."

"But you do not understand... there is a bit more to it than that among the Randirrim." Tarlanc had become almost too embarrassed to speak, but the twins devilishly implored him to continue. "Please," he held up a hand, "it would not be appropriate for me to tell you everything. Instead, let me go on to the other parts of the story."

"Aye, dear Tarlanc, tell us only what you wish." Elffled turned away from him to hide her own blushing cheeks. How scandalized their family and friends would be to know that she and her sister were traveling unescorted with a man old enough to be their great-grandfather! They would be even more alarmed to think of them alone with him in the middle of a dark forest, listening to his naughty tales!

"The Randirrim usually follow the wedding customs of the country in which they live up to a point, and then everything changes. Instead of the feast and the joyful procession to the bed chamber right after the wedding, there is first another custom." Tarlanc coughed nervously. "The bride's mother and an honored matron retire to another tent, where they... ahh... advise the blushing bride..." Suddenly, he hit upon the words which would spare them all from embarrassment. "They would advise her on being a good wife. Aye that is it!"

The sisters looked at him questioningly. They were somewhat disappointed; both were hoping to hear a juicy tale. Of course, they knew that Tarlanc was too honorable and modest a man to say anything risque to two young girls who were still considered children among the long-lived Gondorians.

As he beamed at his own cleverness at evading the exact nature of the "advice," the visions of his wedding flooded through Tarlanc's mind. The Randirrim insisted that their unmarried women be pure and innocent. If it were discovered that the bride had been defiled by another man, the groom could reject her and demand the brideprice to be returned, telling her to go to the one who had ruined her. To verify the bride's purity, she was examined after the wedding by a "virginity judge," an elderly woman with much experience in performing the ritual. "Strange custom," Tarlanc thought, as he had so many times before. "It would save much distress if they had the examination before the wedding!"

The "judge of virtue" would twist a white handkerchief around her finger and insert the cloth into the girl's channel of love and feel for her maidenhead. If the highly prized barrier had been breached, the bridegroom was under no obligation either to pay the inspector or to accept the "damaged goods." It was in his rights to demand that the man who had deflowered her would have to bear the responsibility, for the offended bridegroom certainly would not.

Tarlanc had not known about the custom before his marriage. Much to his and his bride's embarrassment, the august lady came back in a state of dismay, crying and waving the handkerchief. With a sense of offended propriety, the judge proclaimed to one and all that Tabahanza was no virgin. Over the green meadow where the wedding had been celebrated there fell a great pall of shocked silence, save for the soft weeping of Tabahanza, who followed behind the midwife. No one spoke while the people waited for Tarlanc to demand satisfaction from the man who had stolen the groom's sacred right to deflower his bride. People looked to see if the guilty knave would come forward and confess his crime, but no man stepped out of the crowd. His face hot with the red flush of shame, Tarlanc had no choice other than to confess that his love had been too overpowering for him to wait until after the wedding to consummate the union.

At this painful confession of his new son-in-law, Wedri's dark eyes had blazed with anger, his face turning almost black with hot blood, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. Then to Tarlanc's great relief, Wedri had burst out in laughter, clasping his new son-in-law about the shoulders and kissing him upon both cheeks. Turning away, he then announced to everyone, "I was worried that my daughter had married a foreign weakling, but now I know that she has married a true man! They will give Ahãma and me many grandchildren to brighten our older years!"

Roaring with approval, the crowd picked up the father and his son-in-law and carried them all about the camp on their shoulders. Shouting wildly, Wedri had ripped his shirt to pieces as the crowd heralded him with even greater salvos of approval. When the jubilant procession had halted, the whole camp broke into wild celebration. Tarlanc smiled as he remembered how the men and women spontaneously formed a circle and began to dance. How they had swirled and turned, their bright, gaudy clothing like so many colorful flowers spinning around and around!

Tarlanc emphasized the jubilant celebration, the abundant food and wine, the happiness of the crowd, but he would never tell the maidens about the results of the embarrassing examination of his bride by the midwife. That would remain his secret.

"And then," Tarlanc concluded, wiping away the glistening sweat on his forehead, "there was dancing and feasting the rest of the night."

"Oh, Tarlanc, that was a wonderful story," Elfhild remarked. Even though the old fellow's tale was not exactly the most scintillating she had ever heard, still it was enjoyable. She found the culture of the Randirrim fascinating, and wondered if she would ever meet any of them.

"And so romantic!" Elffled exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "How beautiful the wedding must have been with all the music, singing and dancing. I would love to have a wedding like that in the Mark!" She giggled at the thought. "I would want you to attend. I would be so sad if you did not, my dear friend!"

"And I would not miss it for anything!" Tarlanc beamed, basking in the warm light of all the attention.

"But Tarlanc, there is something I cannot understand." Elfhild looked at him questioningly, her brows furrowed in consternation.

"What is that?"

"What is so unusual about the bride being given advice after the wedding?" she asked innocently, glancing around at both of them. "Although I thought that usually took place before the wedding..."

Elbowing Elfhild in the ribs, Elffled hissed in her sister's ear, "Sometimes I cannot believe how dense you are! Do you not understand anything? Can you not tell that this 'advice' involves something so embarrassing that Tarlanc does not wish to discuss it with us?"

"Oh!" Elfhild's eyes widened, and she blushed in embarrassment. She quickly sought for some topic to change the subject. "Was this the end of all the trouble with Dezi?" she asked, congratulating herself at her diplomatic solution to a delicate problem.

Tarlanc walked back to the blanket and retrieved his pipe and tobacco. Striking the flint to the steel, he soon had a fire glowing in the bowl. "My thoughts come easier to me when I am smoking a pipe," he explained, chuckling. "There is more to my tale, which I will continue now.

"For almost three months, Dezi sulked in his mother's tent, refusing to leave it. He could not bear the ridicule that he would receive for having fallen off the horse and breaking his leg." Tarlanc looked down at the red embers of burning tobacco in his pipe and thought back to those long ago days of his youth. "Somehow Dezi became convinced that his leg had never healed properly. No matter how many reassurances the healer gave him, Dezi's childish mind feared that his leg would fracture as soon as the cast was removed. Finally, in spite of his doubts and his sniveling protests, his mother and the healer were able to convince him to use the crutch that the camp's wood carver had made for him. When he first put weight on his leg, Dezi had burst into tears, whimpering that the pain was unbearable. It was not until a day later when at last he consented to leave his sanctuary.

"'Tarlanc is the cause of my pain, and with every step I take, I will think of him,' he explained to his mother as he stood at the entrance of their tent.

"'But how can that be, my son? He did nothing to make the horse run away with you,' the good lady patiently told him. 

"'When the hateful foreigner first came among us, Tabahanza no longer liked me and would not look at my toys when I brought them to her! Never again did she sing her songs for me, but she sang them for him! He placed the evil eye upon me and cursed me with the magic of the Ancient Ones! He is wicked, Mother! Do you not understand?'

"All over the camp, people could hear his whining voice as he hobbled about his mother's tent. After a week or so, he finally realized that he was healed. That is when my troubles began once more, only this time they increased tenfold." Bowing his head, Tarlanc set down his pipe. As though in sympathy, the great hound licked his master's hand affectionately as the old miller gazed into the darkness.


	19. Mysteries of the Crystal

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Gazing into the flickering light of the candle lantern, the old miller hunched forward, his hands pressing together. Haun whined softly as he looked up at his master, and then with a great sigh, the hound settled at the old man's feet. Memories of Tabahanza flooded through his mind, and he was filled with such a surge of emotion that he was unsure if he could even continue. Still he had promised the girls a tale for their birthday, and though it would pain his soul, he would tell them of his life among the Randirrim so long ago. What good were old men anyway, except to spin tales? Somehow he felt that he should tell someone so that the memories could live on, and though he had only met these two orphans the day before, they were good listeners and pleasant company. When he finally spoke again, his voice quavered, and his eyes stared into the distance.

"Tabahanza and I were wed upon a golden day in early autumn when the harvesting of crops was at its height. From the fields, patient oxen drew carts and wagons loaded with baskets and barrels of fresh vegetables. Apples hung ripe and sweet from the branches, some falling upon the ground to be eaten by cattle or horses, while others would be picked from the trees by the gatherers. The harvest of lush, golden peaches was so heavy that many of the branches were broken down before the pickers could claim the fruit. Peasants, their bare legs stained purple up to mid-calf, trod the grapes into pulp in preparation for the wine press."

The girls listened to him in silence, captivated by his voice, which had grown stronger as he continued to speak. Waves of homesickness washed over them as they thought of the harvest back in Rohan. Tarlanc must have guessed their thoughts, for he smiled at them as though he shared their pain. Batting away tears, they smiled back at him through the darkness. The old man's voice was firm and strong as he spoke again.

"A bountiful crop of walnuts fell from the trees in torrents, clattering onto the roofs, rolling off and falling to the ground as a green rain. Hazelnuts and other nuts graced trees and bushes, providing mast for the woodland creatures and assuring them of more than enough to see them through the winter. That year there was a great bounty of vegetables, fruits and nuts spilling forth from the fruitful womb of nature, the fall harvest fulfilling spring's promise of fertility." Tarlanc chuckled softly as he remembered.

"Many of the birds of summer that always left in early autumn were preparing for or had already departed on their annual southern flight to Near and Far Harad. Perhaps it is just an old man's faulty memory, but the huge white storks seemed reluctant to leave their ungainly great nests upon the roofs of houses, and gathered as though in consultation with others of their kind. I was loath to see them depart when they finally did." Tarlanc's voice wavered, but then he found the strength to continue. "When the last of the birds were gone in October, we knew that the chill winter rains would soon be upon the lands to the south and the hoary mantle of snow would begin to cover the northern country."

The twins knew that the old miller had opened his heart and mind to them, taking them into a past that was long dead. While they were eager to hear his tale, both sensed that some of the memories must be painful for him. Filled with sympathy, Elffled reached out her hand and touched his shoulder, giving him one of her sweetest smiles.

The miller turned to her and patted her hand. "Ah, lass, I talk too much!" Tarlanc grinned self-consciously.

"No, no, dear Tarlanc, I could listen to your stories forever!" Elffled's smile lit up even brighter. While she was not being exactly truthful, she would never admit that she felt some parts of Tarlanc's story were extremely tiresome. She was developing a fondness for the kindly old miller, and would never do anything to hurt his feelings. "Please go on!" she urged him softly.

"Yes, Tarlanc, tell us more," Elfhild added, hoping that her voice would not betray her. Several times during his long account, she had found herself close to dozing. She sat up straighter, folded her hands demurely in her lap, and concentrated on staying awake.

"Sometimes, lasses, I think that you are only humoring an old man, but if you insist," he chuckled. Then after filling up a new pipe and lighting it, he resumed his tale. "As I think about these days, I see them through the patina of time. For Tabahanza and me, the days of autumn sped by as quickly as though we had both been caught in a golden dream from which we would never awaken.

"Sitting upon the banks of the river, we laughed like children as we ate peaches and threw the pits into the arms of the river. We raced each other across amber meadows strewn with chicory and goldenrod. Often before we ever finished the race, we would fall into a lovers' knot of tangled arms and legs as we kissed and caressed amidst the crushed chicory. There was nothing to disturb our bliss until that day in early December when the massive bulk of Dezi shuffled forth from his mother's tent, leaning to one side and dragging his injured leg. Peering at the late autumn sun, he blinked like a bat pulled from its lair and hissed his displeasure." Tarlanc looked up at the night sky, unaware that he was clenching his fist. The girls noticed, though, and looked at him anxiously.

"I would be frightened half out of my wits with the threat of Dezi looming over my head," Elfhild remarked with a shiver.

"Were you able to make peace with him?" Elffled asked hopefully, tilting her head to the side.

"Ah, lassie, I wish that could have been so, but it was not to be," Tarlanc replied sadly. "From that day onward, my happiness withered and apprehension and worry became my constant companions. Whenever I struck the hot iron on the anvil, it seemed that I heard with each blow of the hammer a voice crying the word, 'Flee!'

"'Where?' I asked. 'Go north,' came the voice in my head. 'Too late in the season, too close to winter,' my frowning common sense told me, and so my bride and I stayed. Yet burdened by this doleful cadence that reason could not banish, I decided I must take council with Ahãma who had once read my future.

"'Are you sure about this?' she asked me doubtfully as later I sat at her table. 'I thought Gondorians did not believe in such things, considering them superstitions or worse, and unworthy of them because of their Númenórean lineage.'

"'It does not matter what Gondorians believe,' I snapped, wishing only to know the meaning of my dire premonition. 'I want you to tell me what you see in my palm.' I looked into the depths of her ebony eyes, which were gazing back at me with tender concern.

"'My son, then if this is what you want, I will do it. Let me have your hand,' came her soft answer as she took my outstretched hand in hers. 'Oh, it is far too soiled for me to divine anything,' she exclaimed after seeing my blackened palm.

"'The hands of a smith often are,' I remarked, smiling stiffly as she moistened a cloth and wiped the grime from my hands.

"She was quiet for a long while as she gazed into my palm. I wondered what mysteries she saw there, what ominous tidings revealed themselves to her mind. 'Six lines of magnitude on the right palm, your dominant hand - your whole life from birth until death... and beyond. The left hand tells me about your past before your birth, a past which remains hidden to you... However, none of this is pertinent to this reading.' Her eyes lifted up to mine. 'No, please, I see your disapproval. Do not ask me about things which your people deny and in which mine believe.'

"'No, I will not ask,' I told her quietly. 'Please tell me what you can.'

"She smiled at me gently and, studying the lines on my right hand in order from the first to the sixth, she traced each one's pattern until she had finished. She continued to gaze down at my hand, and apparently not satisfied, she closed her eyes and sat there in brooding silence. Her fingers stroked my hand as through trying to see things there that could not be fathomed through normal sight. Her eyes suddenly snapped open and she began to trace a fingertip in a curving path from the edge of my palm above the thumb towards my wrist. 

"'Your lifeline... I am perplexed by what I see here.' She looked over at me. 'Besides revealing your vigor and strength, this line foretells great happenings in a person's life, great upheavals, sadness, wounds, injuries, deaths and partings. The length of the line does not reflect the length of your life, but the lines which branch off it reflect the events of your life.'

"'Aye,' I replied. 'I have heard the longer the lifeline meant the longer a person would live.'

"'Nay, it is as I told you,' she shook her head. 'Now this is your fate line,' she told me as she ran a fingertip in a straight line from the bottom of my palm through the center and towards my middle finger. 'The important choices that you make in life are reflected here, but more importantly this is the line of circumstance and fate. These things are beyond our ability to control, though sometimes this line can show the consequences of the choices that we make.'

"'What do you see?' Her words made me feel uncomfortable, but I managed to laugh lightly as though I did not take this reading seriously. However, I considered this to be of the most solemn and serious of matters.

"Tarlanc, I will tell you nothing at this time.' Her dark eyes drove into mine as I looked at her disbelievingly. 'Nay,' she murmured, squeezing my hand in hers, 'I cannot answer the questions I have seen in your eyes. Not yet, anyway.'

"'But why will you not tell me what you have beheld? I do not understand.' I looked at her in perplexity as she released my hand and stood to her feet. 

"'There are things that I have seen revealed in your palm, but I am hesitant to tell you yet. I must delve deeper, my son.' She reached out her hand, brushing her fingers against my cheek, then turned and walked to a shelf along the wall. A sense of dread came over me and I could not seem to control my breathing. My heart was pounding in my chest and I could feel the blood pumping in my temples. I watched as she walked across the wain, each step of her dainty feet seeming as slow as the passage of sand in an hourglass. Carrying a silk covered object in her hands, she placed it upon the table. When she drew away the covering, I beheld a large sphere resting upon a goldtone stand.

"Ahãma looked up from the stone and smiled at me. 'The sphere radiates energy in all directions and is not limited as are wands. You see the complete scope of things - a situation or yourself. Energy will go through everything. The stone has its own energy, which is different from another stone. It can take much time to get to know a stone and all its abilities. I have had this one since I was a young woman, and we have learned to know each other quite well over the years.'

"I looked at her skeptically. I thought how ridiculous it was for one ever to believe that it was possible to know a rock as one would know a person or a beast. But she only smiled at me in gentle amusement, perhaps sensing my incredulity and treating it as she would the innocent foolishness of a child. Perhaps she read the doubts in my mind; I do not know." Sighing deeply, Tarlanc closed his eyes and then looked away before bringing his gaze back once again to the twins. 

"I do not know how long she looked at me this way, but it seems now that some time had passed before she resumed speaking. Then when she did, she almost whispered, 'Can you see anything in the crystal, Tarlanc? Anything?'

"I replied, 'No, nothing,' my voice now openly scornful. 'Nothing but shimmering rainbows reflected by the light - what I had expected to see - but certainly nothing unusual.' I could not understand why she did not simply tell me what my palm had revealed to her. I was tiring of the whole business and wondered why I had ever come to her wain that night. I had simply given in to a foolish whim, imagining that I had heard some voice of doom in my mind. The stress of knowing that Dezi was on the loose again had undermined my confidence. Knowing stones as you would another person? Indeed! Utter absurdity!" Tarlanc snorted. Awakened from his sleep, Haun looked up at him questioningly, and then settled back down with a grunt as Tarlanc patted his head.

"At that moment, lasses, I felt like a weakling. Strong, reasoning men have no truck with soothsayers, wizards, witches and diviners! Such men who do are cowards or gross fools who fear their own shadows and want reassurances from mumbling charlatans that all is well in their future. That was what happened to the Kings of Gondor before the Stewards – they succumbed to the guile of sorcerers. At that moment, I could almost hear my father's mocking laughter in my ears. 'Ran away to be with the foreigners, did you, boy? Would not have it any other way, would you, Tarlanc? Left your home and all that was dear to you to be with such riffraff. But perhaps you are happy being with your own kind at last.' The memory of his caustic words was so real to me that I almost cringed.

"'Ahãma, I am sorry to have taken your time,' I announced stiffly. 'It was a mistake to have come here.' I started to rise, but she caught my sleeve with her hand. 

"'No, Tarlanc, stay but a while, and look again into the stone. Tell me you cannot see something... movement, colors, images... perhaps some white brilliance.' Her voice sounded pleading.

"'No, I told you, I saw nothing but the light reflected. Now if you will give me your permission, I shall leave you and bid you good night.' I waited for her to release my sleeve, for it would have been rude to have torn it from her grasp. 

"'It is just as well that you cannot,' she sighed, her face filled with sadness. 'For many times the gift of reading the stone is as much a curse as it is a blessing. You do not have to worry about that, dear Tarlanc. You were not born with this gift. You only have to worry about the future.'

"'Then, Ahãma,' I challenged her, 'I assume you can see something here beyond a pretty rock.'

"'Aye, Tarlanc.' She closed her eyes and nodded her head. 'Listen to me well.'

"Her kind, gentle words were far more intimidating than any shout, and I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck bristle as a chill shot up my spine. 'Tell me then,' I replied, the fear thick in my voice, for as she spoke, I experienced an even worse premonition than the ones which I had felt at the forge.

Wrapping the silk around the sphere, she placed it back on the holder. She took my hands in hers and looked deeply into my eyes. 'There is good news... Tabahanza is with child, the babe so tiny that no one would ever guess it was there. She will tell you her suspicions in a few days, and you must act as though you know nothing about it, or she will know where you learned it. You must tell her nothing of what I have told you today, or it will weigh heavily upon her mind and distress her greatly!'

"Shocked at this news, I stared at her, gaping like a simpleton. 'How do you know?' 

"'The stone told me.' She smiled mysteriously before her face grew solemn again. 'You must be careful, Tarlanc. Very careful. More for her sake than for yours, but you, too, are in grave danger. Guard your steps. Guard her, for the danger is great.'

"'How do you know?' I asked again, my voice shaking now.

"While you saw nothing, I saw black mixed with red fanning out like dovetails and then joining together in the whole, swirling through the stone... a grave portent signifying a perilous omen. Something horrible is about to happen, but I cannot tell what it will be, nor when it will occur.' Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment before she opened them and spoke once more. 'There were visions, too, but, again, they were not clear. Do not ask me about them, Tarlanc. I only pray that they will not come to pass. Now you must go!' She rose to her feet quickly. 'Go to your wife and take care of her!'

"Murmuring a hurried farewell, I was on my feet and halfway down the steps of the wain when I heard Ahãma call to me, 'Perhaps the portends may change... I will consult the stone again in a few days, but until then, heed my words!'

"Returning to my home shortly before darkness fell, I found that Tabahanza had supper almost prepared. Looking up from the small brazier, she smiled her greetings to me. She left her cooking and locked her arms around my neck, kissing me in greeting. Attempting to hide my fears and unsettled thoughts, I kissed her back as earnestly as she had kissed me, laughing as though I had not a care in the world. When she led me to the table, I had to force myself to eat, for my stomach was in knots and my mouth seemed numb to all taste.

"'Is something wrong, husband? Is the food not prepared to your liking?' Her worried eyes caught mine as she bit at her lower lip.

"'No, certainly not,' I hedged as I speared a piece of meat on the end of my eating knife. 'Why would you think that?'

"'Oh, nothing, certainly nothing at all...' She hesitated. 'But I wondered why you stopped by my mother's wagon on your return home. You did not tell me you planned to go there.' Her dark eyes looked into mine unflinchingly.

"'How did you know?' I gave as an answer.

"'Pere came by a while ago and told me. You seldom do that, and never without telling me.'

"'I forgot,' I replied gruffly, wishing only to stop her questioning. 'My day of labor has been long, and I wish for nothing more than to go to bed...'

"'As soon as I clean these few dishes...'

"No," I interrupted, 'I cannot wait to have you in my arms. While you get ready for bed, I will tend to them.'

"Smiling, she rose from the table, laughing softly as she walked towards our bed and..." A look of embarrassment came over Tarlanc's face. "Lasses, you do not need to know what happened next." His remark was met by girlish titters.

"Of the days that followed, there is little to report." Tarlanc exhaled slowly. "I worked at the forge repairing broken kettles and other such items, sharpening knives to a keen edge, and shoeing horses. I thought of nothing else save the words of Ahãma. Unable to bear the tension longer, I went back to her. To my despair, I learned that the colors and hues which she saw in the crystal had not changed their dolorous prognostications.

"I now began dreading to go to work, fearful to let Tabahanza out of my sight. I considered asking Meri or Pere to go by and make sure that she was safe. That idea I quickly discarded, knowing that they would want an explanation which I could not give. I developed the habit of returning to my wain during the day, explaining my unexpected appearances by telling her that I had forgotten something or I did not feel well or that I simply wanted to see her - any excuse I could think of to hide my true reason. Much to my relief, Ahãma began spending more time with her daughter. 

"Coming home early one evening, I opened the door of the wain to find Ahãma and Tabahanza, their heads together in some conspiracy. The two smiled at each other in shared confidence, and Tabahanza flushed and looked down at her hands. When she looked up at me, she was smiling. 'I have wonderful news!'

"'What is it?' I walked over and took her hands, knowing what the news would be before she told me.

"'I think I am with child!' she cried excitedly as she rose to her feet and kissed me. 

"'Oh, my darling... such marvelous news!' I exclaimed, kissing her and holding her tightly to my chest. As I gazed over her shoulder to her mother's horrified face, a chill passed over me. Ahãma looked as though she had just beheld the face of death, and I wondered if it was my own!"


	20. The Wheel of Fate

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Oh, Tarlanc, that is so horrible!" Elfhild cried, edging closer to her sister. "Dezi must have been a terribly frightening man!"

"Aye, lass, though he had the mind of a child, he was a monster," Tarlanc stated frankly.

"Tarlanc, there is something I do not understand." Resting her chin upon her hand, Elffled leaned forward and gazed up at him.

"What is it, lass?" Tarlanc asked, his gray eyes reflecting his puzzlement.

Straightening slightly, she tilted her head to the side and put a finger to her lips. "Why did Dezi's broken leg not heal completely?"

"But it did, lass. The leg healed, but never in his mind."

Elffled's hand fell to her lap and she stared at him, an utterly bewildered look upon her face. "You mean the bones knitted together and the leg was mended?"

"Aye, lass. That is what the healer told the family, but Dezi refused to believe him. He had let his mind fester too long upon all the imagined wrongs that he was convinced that I had done to him. He accused me of taking Tabahanza from him and even blamed me for his broken leg. All the venom in his mind concentrated at one point - his leg. He would not accept that it was restored, and he walked about using his crutch long after he had need of one."

"How awful," Elffled murmured, shaking her head.

Elfhild sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. "What a pity to be so consumed by hatred."

Tarlanc paused a few moments to meditate on what he would say next. "Although I was elated that the proof of my love for Tabahanza had taken root in her womb, I found that my mind continued to be oppressed by dark, brooding fears. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I could hear the dire warning in my mind - 'Flee! Flee north!' There was no comfort or solace for me, for I could tell no one of the fear which ate at my very soul. No longer did I consult with my mother-in-law, for upon that dear woman's face there was written her own sorrow. The depths of the crystal were still clouded with the turbulent storms of a malevolent fate." A look of sorrow crossed Tarlanc's face, and he reached down to pat Haun's head.

"With each passing day, the warning to flee north grew stronger and stronger, and though I drank myself many times to insensibility, no amount of wine or ale could silence the ominous voice of doom." He swallowed hard. "One afternoon whilst shoeing a horse in the smithy, I heard the doleful cadence pounding in my head with each tap of the hammer. When I was finished, I lay aside the tools of my trade. I had made my decision: I would return to the north with my wife as soon as I could make the preparations.

"As I watched Wedri working at the forge, I pondered what I would say to him. Why was I leaving the tribe in the middle of winter? Surely he would think I was insane! Before I could bring up the subject, though, we heard a commotion outside. A Randirric youth had just galloped his steaming, sweat-lathered horse into camp. We left the smithy and joined the crowd that had gathered around him to hear what was the cause of alarm. The boy's words came out in a frantic rush as he relayed the direst of tidings. With trembling voice, he said that he had been returning from 'plying the art' in the city of Linhir when he came upon an accident along the road." A slight smile softened the solemnity of the miller's face. "If you have not already guessed, the boy was up to a bit of thieving in the city, much like the recent work of two fair lasses."

"We had guessed that," Elfhild giggled, a knowing look upon her face.

"At least he was better at it than we are," Elffled put in mischievously.

"Aye, lass," Tarlanc chuckled softly. "The boy was never caught, and he had been at it since childhood. Now where was I?" He scratched his head. "Sometimes I am a trifle forgetful."

"You had just told us that a boy had seen an accident on his way to the Randirric camp," Elfhild reminded him.

"Ah! Now I remember," Tarlanc muttered. "As the youth explained it, a local farmer and his son had been returning from selling pigs and chickens at market day in the city when their wagon hit a deep rut in the road. The cart was old and ramshackle, and the impact splintered a spoke on one of the wheels. Perhaps they were in too great a hurry - I never knew exactly - but the young man tried to lift up the side of the wagon while his father replaced the wheel with a spare one." Tarlanc sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, the young man had more muscle than sense. As he was lifting up the side of the wagon, the cart had shifted, knocking him to the ground and pinning him beneath it. The father was too old to do anything for his son, and when he saw the Randirric boy approaching, the old man hailed him down. 

"Promising to bring back help, the boy left them, not sparing the whip as he galloped back to our camp." A brief flash of light illuminated Tarlanc's shadowed face as he lit his pipe with a burning splinter from the candle. "Lasses, while the Randirrim are sometimes unscrupulous in matters of business, they are not a wicked people. After some discussion, the men decided that a cart was needed to transport the injured man. Xabe, a lame man who could no longer ride, offered his wagon for the task if someone would help him harness his team. Wedri agreed to assist him and told us that they would come along later. Moved by the plight of the young man, the rest of the men saddled their horses and quickly galloped away. My own concerns were temporarily put aside, and I went back to tell my wife goodbye. Tabahanza had to settle for a hurried kiss before I rode away to catch up with them.

"As my horse raced over the frozen ground, I thought about the wisdom of leaving Tabahanza if only for a little while. I tried to convince myself that we would quickly free the boy and be on our way again. 'She will not really be alone,' I told myself. 'The other women will be close by.' I tried to justify my actions and concentrate upon the boy whom I was riding to help.

"Even before we reached the scene of the calamity, we could hear the boy's agonized groans and shrieks. Such a heart-rending sound!" Tarlanc closed his eyes and pressed his hand against his forehead. "Sometimes in the silence of the night, I can still hear him screaming..." Shuddering, the miller tried to drive the dreadful memories from his mind. "When he saw us approaching, the father came to meet us, begging us to save his son.

"While some of us lifted the wagon off the boy, Pere and another lad pulled him to safety. The injured youth reached up a trembling hand and feebly mouthed the words, 'May the Valar bless you,' before falling into a faint. None of us were healers, and we could do little for him as we waited for Wedri and Xabe. At last they arrived, and while the other Randirrim loaded the unconscious boy into the cart, Wedri called me aside. I noticed that his face was almost as pale as the injured youth's.

"'Son,' Wedri whispered, 'did you see how the lad was barely breathing? There was a froth of blood at the corners of his mouth... An evil sign! I reckon that his chest must be crushed, and he is bleeding inside! He is as good as dead right now... probably will never wake up.'

"'Yes, I fear you are correct,' I mumbled. 'There is not much we can do for him. I doubt even a healer could help him.'

"'I have been considering all this, and I almost wish that I had never agreed to send any of my men to help him!' Wedri shifted nervously, and I saw fear etched upon his weathered face. 'That boy is not one of us, and is none of our responsibility. I will not allow him to be taken to our camp, because when he dies, the Gondorians will very likely blame my tribe. As chief of these people, I will not have that! He must go to the city.' Wedri looked at me as though I might disagree, but I could see the reason in his words, and so I nodded my head in agreement.

"'Wedri, I can understand your position, but why are you telling me this?' I asked apprehensively, for I felt that he was about to ask me to do something unpleasant.

"'Because you are a Gondorian!' He almost shouted as he gripped my arm tightly. 'You are one of them and you can speak that damned Elf talk the way they do! I want you to go along with Xabe and explain to those people that we did nothing to the boy or his father. I do not want any trouble because of this.' His dark eyes were filled with raw terror as he looked up into my face. 'You will tell them all this, will you not, son? Think of Tabahanza and the child!'

"'Wedri, I cannot do it,' I told him quietly, not wanting to become involved in the situation but still not wanting to agitate my father-in-law any more than he already was. 

"'And why not, Tarlanc? Why can you not do this?' He gripped my arm so hard that I winced in pain, but he was wild with panic and impervious to my discomfort. 'Ashamed to let the high and mighty Gondorians know that you have bedded and bred a woman of the 'lesser men?' Do not want to be shamed in the eyes of your kinsmen?' His eyes blazed with desperation.

"'Wedri, that was beneath you,' I replied as calmly as I could, although I was greatly offended at his cruel barb. 'You know that is not true. I am proud to be accounted as an adopted son of the Randirrim and that I have married one of their lovely women.'

"'At least I can be glad of that,' Wedri remarked dryly, a chilly smile on his face. 'Then what is it? Why will you not go?'

"'The journey would take too long, and I am worried about Tabahanza. I promised her I would be back soon.' From his attitude, I was certain that Ahãma had not told him anything of the prophesy of the crystal. It was impossible for me to tell him now, for I had given her my word, and to break my promise was a breach of honor.

"'Is that all it is?' Wedri's face lost its tenseness and he chuckled. 'Fretting about the baby? It is always that way with the first one. When Ahãma was big with the twins, I catered to her slightest whim. Once I was up half the night with her, for she was sure that her water was about to break. My restless night vigil was for naught, for her distress was caused by nothing more than flatulence. The child did not arrive until weeks later! Tabahanza will be all right, son.' He gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. 'It is you I am worried about.' He laughed heartily at his joke and looked around at his men for approval. Their laughter irritated me even more, for I was thoroughly angry by this time.

"'Surely Xabe could explain all this.' Brushing aside the laughter, I glanced at the driver of the wagon, who looked back at me in surprise. 

"'Me?' Xabe tapped a finger against his chest. 'I am no good with words, only with horses! Every time I speak in front of a lot of people, I start stuttering! I will surely make a fool of myself before these foreign people!' Acquainted with the man almost since I had first come among the Randirrim, I realized how foolish had been my suggestion, for Xabe was indeed backward. 

"'Tarlanc,' Wedri remarked, growing impatient, 'you see that you are the only one!'

"'Is there no one else?' Desperately, I looked around to the assembled men.

"'I have explained all this to you before. The Gondorians suspect us of every mischief, from stealing to sorcery. You are one of them, and so the people of the city will believe you. It is your duty to go! Do not worry about Tabahanza; she will be fine in your absence. Now go so that you can return before night.' Giving me another pat on the arm, Wedri retrieved his horse, which had been tied to the back of Xabe's wagon, mounted up, and grinned at me.

"Unwillingly I consented. After bidding them farewell, I hitched my horse to the wagon and climbed into the seat beside Xabe. Rocking back and forth and moaning softly, the old man sat beside his son in the back. I folded my arms across my chest and stared resolutely ahead. 

"Xabe was a kind-hearted soul for all his backwardness, and he drove the wagon slowly so that the man and his son might not be jostled. Nothing I could say would hurry him along the road. When we arrived at Linhir, the gates were about to close for the evening, and there was a long line ahead. Riders, carts, wagons and people on foot blocked the road and made it impossible for us to enter the city. Cursing at the delay, we waited until the traffic ahead of us had thinned. I called to one of the guards at the city gates and asked where we might find a healer. Looking us over dubiously, the man came swaggering out of the guardhouse.

"'I see by your outlandish dress that you are Randir,' he told us as though the word tasted foul in his mouth. 'What is your business in Linhir?'

"'This man has been seriously injured in an accident.' I gestured with a nod towards the back of the wagon.

"The guard moved closer. 'And who is this man with him?'

"'His father,' I replied, none too pleasantly.

"'Can he not speak for himself? Is he an idiot?'

"'No,' I bristled. 'He is not simpleminded, but if you had any wits in your hard head, you would see that he is occupied with his injured son!'

"'Is that right?' the guard challenged as he stepped up to the back of the wagon and peered down. 'And who are you who speaks with such an impudent tongue?' He flicked his head back towards me.

"'Tarlanc of Anórien,' I replied. 'Now tell us where we may find a physician. This man is nigh onto death.'

"'Nigh onto death? Most likely dead already from the looks of him,' the guard laughed coldly. 'If you insist on seeing a physician, drive straight up this street until you come to a crossroads. The road to the right leads to the Street of the Healers.'

"'Then our thanks to you and good evening.' I motioned to Xabe to move the wagon ahead.

"'Just a moment now.' The guard sounded irritated. 'The driver has permission to pass through to the city, but not you. Not yet anyway.'

"'What do you mean?' I challenged him.

"'Get off the wagon!' The guard walked closer and brandished his spear at my chest. 'Men, to me!' he called back to the guard station. 'There is a troublemaker here!' Before I could reply, two large fellows had stepped to the heads of the team and gripped the reins. I had no choice but to climb down and follow the guard. Casting a nervous glance towards me, Xabe cracked the whip over the horses' heads, and the wagon lurched forward.

After being searched and relieved of my dagger, I was taken to the guardhouse and brought before the captain. A stocky man with a reddish face, the captain looked me up and down disapprovingly from behind his fine mahogany table. Beside him sat his secretary, a sharpened quill pen in his hand. A long, miserable hour awaited me as I was bombarded with endless, repetitious questions. The minutes passed by as slowly as the time it would take for a lame turtle to make its tortured way through a field scattered with rocks.

"'Tarlanc,' his eyebrows arched, 'you say that is your name?'

"'Aye, Captain.' I replied respectfully, watching his secretary take note of that in a leather-bound book of parchments.

"'Very well then. And you say you are eighteen years of age and are from Anórien, the son of a miller in the service of Lord Caun?'

"'Aye, sir, that is what I said earlier.' The guard to my right could barely conceal the contempt he felt for me.

"'Your trade is smithing, yes?'

"'Aye, sir.'

"'And you are an honest man?'

"'I would hope so, sir.'"

"The captain interlaced his fingers together and took a long look at me. His next words were as sharp and unexpected as death creeping up unawares, and I involuntarily jumped. 'Then what the hell are you doing associating with the Randirrim? Initiating them into the ways of civilization and good manners, perhaps?'

"'No,' I replied, 'that is not necessary. They have both already. If you will remember, I explained all this before. I ran away from home when I was fourteen years old. Their chief took me in and he and his wife brought me up. Before I married their daughter, I was adopted into the tribe. I am an honorable man, Captain. Perhaps I do not look it, but I am.'

"'Well, Tarlanc, if that is indeed your name, the Randirrim have a poor reputation in Linhir. Whenever they are in this area, they come to the city and steal everything they can get their filthy hands on. If they get half a chance, they seduce our women with their honeyed words and lying lips. Noo,' he rolled the word on his tongue, 'we do not like the Randirrim, and it is my fervent wish that an edict be passed forbidding them to camp anywhere near our city.' He began tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. 'You have taken a wife from among them. What kind of man are you to beget a mongrel upon a Randirric woman?' 

"By that time, I was sure that the captain would have me whipped and thrown into the gaol, but then a guardsman came in to the room bearing tidings for his commander. The captain looked almost disappointed as he read the parchment. When he had finished, he looked up at me. 'Tarlanc, it appears that you were telling some part of the truth, at least about the unfortunate farmer and his son. They are indeed of Gondor. Now the boy,' he paused. 'His chest was crushed horribly, his lung punctured, and he bled to death internally. Poor fellow, from the sound of it, he never could have survived.' The man shook his head sadly, looked down at the parchments in front of him, and then back to me. 'You are a strange one. You dress like the Randirrim, you smell like them, you live among them, you say that you have produced a half-breed on one of their women, and you expect me to believe that you are not one of them?'

"'Aye,' I replied, keeping my voice as respectful as I could, well aware that he had taken a strong disliking to me. 

"'Then prove it to me. If you can pass a test, I might free you.'

"'If I can, sir. What is the test?

"'Recite the tale of Lúthien and Beren in Elvish. Do a passable job and I will free you. Fail, and you will be spending a long time in our gaol.'

"'Captain, do you jest?'

"'I have never been more serious in my life,' he replied, his face as solemn and stern as any judge.

"I laughed then, not caring if he had the power to cast me in prison or not. The task he had set before me was an easy one, albeit unpleasant. I did not tell the captain, but I hated the poem, for when I was a boy, my father forced me to learn the ancient rhyme by heart. Whenever I stumbled over a line, he would order me to pull down my breeches so that he could whip my bare buttocks with his belt." Tarlanc listened to the twins' appalled murmurs and then continued.

"I was smiling when I told the captain, 'Though I am a dirty, filthy, thieving Randirric son by adoption, I can handle the task which you have set me most easily. Surely you could have found a more difficult one.' At first I began to recite slowly, calling upon memory almost forgotten. Though my throat was dry and I was licking my lips like a thirsty dog, by the time I reached the part about Tol Sirion, I was caught up in the poem and did not stumble over a single stanza.

"The captain's eyes widened and he stared at me like an old owl. Finally he exclaimed, 'Enough! I am amazed. You have passed the test, perhaps even better than I could have done. Have a goblet of wine, Tarlanc, and settle your throat. The draught will be payment for entertaining me. Perhaps I should have had a lute player accompany you. You did as well as any bard who earns his bread by his recitations.' The sarcasm dripped from his words like vinegar poured from a jar. After I had finished my drink, he ordered, 'Now get out of my city and return to your precious Randirrim!'

"Bowing to him, I bade him farewell and followed the guards out the door. As I walked with them back to the city gate, I had a mad urge to sing the Lay of Lúthien at the top of my lungs, but better judgment prevailed."


	21. A Vision of Dread

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Lasses, the first watch of the evening was just ending when the captain at last dismissed me." Tarlanc squinted into the darkness, barely able to make out the shadowed faces of the twins in the lantern light. "The captain had treated me as though I were a felon, threatened me with prison, and reviled me because of my insistence that I was truly a Gondorian by birth and lineage. I was enraged. Not only had the captain gravely insulted me, but he had kept me from going home to my wife."

"What an awful man!" Elfhild exclaimed, horrified at the treatment that Tarlanc had received. Elffled was too quiet, and she wondered if her sister had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Elfhild elbowed her in the ribs, and Elffled turned around to glare at her. 

"I am not asleep, Elfhild, if that is what you are thinking," Elffled replied hotly, rubbing her side. "At least you did not break anything!" She felt somewhat mollified when Elfhild fidgeted uncomfortably.

Blushing, Elfhild attempted to change the subject back to the hostile reception which Tarlanc had received in the city of Linhir. "I know some Gondorians think ill of those who are not from their land," she put in shyly, wondering what Tarlanc truly thought of them. "The captain was cruel and petty to waylay you just so he could harass you!"

"He was not a cruel man, lass, but surely a misguided one, to judge others on outward appearance alone. I have certainly encountered worse by far over the years." Tarlanc lit up another pipe. "I remember the arrogant smirk on the captain's face as he told me never to come back to Linhir or I would live to regret it." The miller's brow furrowed in a deep frown as he recalled his tormentor. "After the interrogation, the guards took me to where a frightened Xabe awaited below the city walls. As the gate was raised, the guards laughed and cursed, ordering us out of the city. You would have thought that we were infected with the plague!" Tarlanc shook his head, laughing softly at the absurdity. "Leaving the twinkling lights of civilization behind, we went out into a night without moon and whose dim stars gave only a sullen light. The inky skies suited my mood, which had grown increasingly foul during my interrogation. 

"Xabe was nervous, constantly glancing over his shoulder as he cracked the whip over the horses' heads, urging them to go faster. 'That was a close one,' his voice trembled as he wiped the sweat that glistened on his forehead in spite of the cool night. 

"'Cutting it a little too close for comfort,' I agreed. When he asked me about my interview with the captain, I told him about the interrogation. As he cursed the Gondorians under his breath, I added that I had already learned that the young man had died of his injuries. 'How is the father?' I asked.

"'Poor man, so grieved he is that I wonder if he will outlive his son by very much,' Xabe muttered, shaking his head. 'His heart was fairly broken.' Neither of us said much for a while after that, each thinking his own thoughts of the tragedy. At last Xabe interrupted the stillness. 'The healer was a decent sort, though, not like those damn guards. He and his assistants plan to go about the city and collect enough coin to give the young man a proper funeral. The poor old fellow is in no condition to take his son back home to bury him in their village.'

"'That was considerate of them,' I remarked. 

"'Well, what did you expect?' my companion asked, shrugging. 'He was one of them. Now if it had been one of our men - would they have been so charitable, planting him in the ground someplace quiet? Maybe toss a flower on his grave? Ha! I do not think so, no.' Xabe poked his finger deep inside his ear and inspected the amber-colored wax which was now caked under his fingernail. 'No, nothing proper like that! They would have tossed his body onto the refuge dump outside the walls and left it there amongst the rotten cabbages, broken pots and bottles, and women's menstrual rags. He would lie there cold and pale as the dogs sniffed his crotch and licked the blood off his wounds and his bones were picked clean by the ravens!'

"'At least you are frank with your comments, Xabe,' I chuckled, unable to keep from laughing at his colorful descriptions. 'But, no,' I added as my mood sobered once again, 'the Gondorians can be a heartless lot in battle, but they respect the remains of the dead. They would bury him properly.'

"'You think so?' He turned to me, his eyes questioning.

"'Aye,' I told him, 'in spite of whatever errors into which they may have fallen, they are still sons of the Númenóreans.'

"'If you say so, Tarlanc,' Xabe muttered, 'but neither the Númenóreans nor their descendants ever had any love for the likes of us 'lesser men.''

"I did not wish to argue," Tarlanc explained, "and so I pretended I had not heard him. I hunched down deeper into my cloak, for the night was cold, and the frost lay upon the ground. Xabe shook the reins over the backs of the horses, sending the team into a lively trot. We fell silent, marveling at the scene as the lanterns on the front of the wagon sent out their warm radiating light over the ground. The glow struck the glittering frost and turned its surface into a million sparkling facets of white crystalline splendor.

"Lasses, I am sure that you know how moods can overtake you, and you can think of nothing else." Tarlanc nodded at the twins' murmured agreement. "That was what happened to me. The reminder of the young man's death caused my mind to plunge even deeper into the darkest of gloom. I did not like to feel this way, and so I attempted to pull my spirits out of the low place where they had settled into an icy slough of despondency. I had always been a cheerful person, seldom knowing depression, but during those rare times when I sank into a melancholy, I always relied upon my own strength and reason to pull out of it. As we rode along, the wagon bumping upon the uneven pavement, I rationalized with myself. 'What could possibly have gone wrong in my absence? Nothing, surely nothing! Surrounded by her kinsmen, what could happen to her? I am a love struck fool to worry so! Tabahanza is probably lying snug and warm under the blankets on our bed, awaiting my kiss to awaken her.'

"I was still brooding when Xabe called out, 'We are almost home! I can see the lights ahead!' He waved the whip in the direction of the camp. 

"The horses were as eager to be going home as Xabe and I were. Arching their necks and lifting their feet high, the team pulled at the bit as they trotted briskly towards the shed where they were stabled. Xabe declined my offer to help him unhitch the team. 'I know how it is to be a young buck and in love. You go on home now to your wife. I know she is what you have really been thinking about. Remember me to her with a kiss!' He winked at me as we parted.

"Shivering with the cold - for the night seemed to have grown chillier - I hurried off towards my wain, seeing the face of my beautiful Tabahanza before me like a vision in the misty steam of my own breath. When I entered our wain, I found it dark and eerily silent. 'Tabahanza?' I called out, but there was no reply. Becoming alarmed, I shouted her name over and over, but the wain was silent and empty, the covers on our bed undisturbed. Terror hit me in the stomach like a mallet of ice.

"I was in a blind panic as I rushed out of the wain and ran to Wedri's wagon. I hammered wildly upon the door, nearly hitting my father-in-law in the face when he suddenly opened the door. 'Sorry, Wedri,' I stammered, my face burning in embarrassment.

"'Be careful where you are swinging those fists, son! You could hurt someone!' he rumbled in annoyance as he motioned me inside. One glance about the room told me that Tabahanza was not there.

"'Wedri, we do not have time to talk! Tabahanza is gone!' 

"'Gone? What do you mean, gone?' He stared at me, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"'When I returned home, she was not there,' I told him hurriedly. 'Has she been here tonight?'

"'Earlier she was here, but she did not stay long.' He peered up at me. 'Tarlanc, just sit down and let us talk this over calmly.' His face full of concern, Wedri placed his hand upon my arm and led me to a stool. At that moment, the arras between the two sections of the room parted, and Ahãma came into the room. Her long gray-streaked black hair was unbound and hung wildly about her haggard face. Clutching a shawl around her shoulders, she shivered as though she were freezing.

"'What is this about Tabahanza?' she asked, her hand grasping at her throat.

"'That was what I had hoped to discover when I came here. I just returned to my wain and Tabahanza is not there!'

"Suddenly Ahãma's shriek cut through the night. 'The circle of fate has been set in motion and there is no turning back now!' With another ghastly cry, she flung herself down onto the cushioned bench. 'The ill-omened prophesy is about to come to pass!' Her dark olive-skinned complexion was as pale as death, and she seemed on the verge of fainting. Rushing over to Ahãma, Wedri sat down beside her, taking her in his arms. She looked to him, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Fetching a cup of wine to revive her, I held the vessel to her lips and wondered what new horrors that her sudden weakness presaged. 

"Turning her head, Ahãma held up her hand in refusal. 'Fah! Wine will not help! You must listen to me! Tabahanza is in great danger! At first the meaning of the visions was hidden from me, but now it is clearer!'

"'Ahãma, this does not make sense,' I interrupted. 'Wedri told me that she was here tonight. If you knew that some great misfortune was about to befall us, why did you not prevent her from leaving?'

"'My son,' she gripped my arm, 'I did not understand then! That is what I am trying to tell you! Tonight she visited with us for a short while and then returned to your wagon. While she was here, we laughed and joked and talked about ordinary things. Nothing she said gave any hint of alarm. However, after she had left the wain, a sense of great peril descended upon me, crushing my very soul and paralyzing my body! I collapsed upon the bed and fell into a deep slumber. I did not awaken until I heard the sounds of your voices.'

"'What do you see, Ahãma?' Wedri's voice shook as he gripped her hand.

"'Darkness!' she screamed. As we looked at her, her features seemed to age, her beautiful face wrinkling and creasing in hundreds of tiny lines. Outside, the wind had picked up, whipping about the wain and howling like ghouls around a barrow. Her glazed eyes stared into nothingness as she sat as stiff as a frozen sapling. Terrified, Wedri passed a hand back and forth in front of her unblinking eyes. 'She is beyond us where we cannot follow. You must not awaken her. Let her talk with the Ancient Ones,' he whispered to me, his voice trembling.

"'Dancing shadows of fire upon the frost,' Ahãma intoned, her voice dull and lifeless. 'A struggle. I look into a deep chasm... the waters of doom froth and churn...'

"Horrified, I watched as she began to shake, her whole body twitching as though she were in the grip of a demon. 'Wedri,' I whispered hoarsely, 'never have I seen her like this! Can we do nothing for her?'

"'Nothing, boy, unless you want to kill her!' He glared at me. 'She will come out of it when the veil is pulled closed. Shhh,' he put his finger to his lips. 'She begins to speak again.'

"'Beware,' Ahãma moaned. 'The child means well, but brings harm clenched in his fist. Peril is in his coming, and death shall follow in his wake. He means well, he means well... Beware of the child! Let the heart be steadfast!' Her eyes rolled back in her head, the whites flashing under her dark lashes. As the words stilled upon her lips, she fell back in a swoon.

"Stunned at what I had seen, I stared down at the lifeless body which Wedri cradled in his arms. 'None of what she said made any sense, Wedri,' I confessed, my mind reeling with dark visions. 'Did you make any sense out of it?' 

"'Never can I comprehend what she says! I am but a blacksmith, and not a seer!' he replied, visibly shaken. 'I suggest you wait until she awakens and perhaps then she will explain the meaning of her words.'

"'I cannot afford to wait!' I replied brashly. 'Now I will leave you and summon the whole camp to ride with me in search of Tabahanza! Will you come, Wedri?'

"'No,' he shook his head, 'but I do not think you should go either. Wait here until Ahãma wakens! You must listen to the message that she will surely have for you!'

"'There is no time!' I rushed from the wain, forgetting to close the door in my haste. Wedri called out behind me, 'Wait, Tarlanc!'

"Unable to ignore his pleading voice, I reluctantly turned back to see him silhouetted in the doorway. His face a mask of light and shadows, he shouted out to me, 'Tarlanc, do nothing foolish! Remember, everything is in the hands of the Gods!'

"'Then let the Gods be with me!' I rashly proclaimed.

"Turning my back on Wedri, I ran to the large open area in the center of the camp. When I reached the circle, I found a bright bonfire burning and a number of the younger people playing music and dancing. Climbing to the top of a set of stairs on a nearby wain, I raised the cry of alarm. The merry-making instantly stopped, and the people looked up at me, waiting to hear what I had to say.

"'As most of you know, I was gone the afternoon, returning only late in the evening. When I reached my home, I found it empty, my wife gone. Has anyone seen her since darkness fell?' I asked, thinking perhaps she had gone to see friends.

"There was a murmuring among the crowd, people looking at each other questioningly. 'No, Tarlanc,' came the voice of one of the musicians, 'not since before darkness.' By then, a large crowd had gathered in the meeting circle and pressed closer to me, eager to see what might happen next. 

"Pushing his way through the throng, Pere spoke up, 'I do not like the sound of this. It is not like my sister to go abroad at night.' 

"'What about Dezi?' I asked. 'Has anyone seen him?' When the crowd was silent, I shouted, 'That settles it! I believe that Tabahanza has been kidnapped, and we can all guess the identity of her abductor!' My eyes scanned the crowd. 'Who will go with me to search for my wife?' My voice rose even higher, and my anger waxed fierce. Drawing my dagger from its sheath, I lifted it high above my head. 'When I find out who has stolen my wife, that man will pay dearly!' 

"One of the clan elders made his way through the crowd and stood below me, looking up into my face. 'Tarlanc, a word with you in private; it will not take long.' He gestured to the side of the wain. Grudgingly I followed him away from the crowd.

"'Yes? What have you to tell me?' I asked when we were alone. 

"Putting his hand on my shoulder, he told me quietly, 'Tarlanc, you must not jump to conclusions. I know there has been bad blood between you and Dezi for a long time, and you consider him your sworn enemy. However, do not blame him for the disappearance of Tabahanza when you have no evidence that he is involved in any way. Dezi would never harm her, for he loves her in his own clumsy, simple-minded way.'

"'That is where you and I disagree,' I told him, none too politely. 'Though he does possess a childish mind, Dezi is far from being a child! He is a grown man of great strength and jealousy, and I consider him very dangerous. Now if you will release my shoulder, I will return to organizing a party to search for them.'

"'Tarlanc, will you at least wait until morning?' he asked. 'No?' I shook my head. He studied me compassionately. 'I have never seen you like this. You are always so calm and restrained. Now you have let your anger consume you. Has something happened which the rest of us do not know?'

"I could not divulge to him what I knew of Ahãma's prophesy, and so I hedged. 'What husband would not be alarmed if he found his wife missing, along with a man whom everyone knows is nothing short of mad? Now excuse me. I must go back.' He started to speak, but I left him abruptly.

"Within the next half hour, over twenty men were willing and eager to help me find my wife who might well be in the clutches of a madman. We set off by the light of smoky, flickering torches to search for my beloved Tabahanza. What the others did not know was that I had made a vow before the Valar that if I found Dezi with my wife, I would kill him!"

"That is a very serious oath to swear," Elfhild whispered gravely. 

"And so it is, dear girl, and so it is." Tarlanc stared into the candle, catching shimmering images in the flames that reminded him of scenes long forgotten.

"Some say," Elffled added, thinking of a bit of lore she had once heard, "that those who break such an oath are cursed forever." She looked at him fearfully, wondering if he had fulfilled his vow, or if he would burst into flames at any moment.

"Aye, some say... but people say many things, and you cannot believe all of what you hear." Tarlanc cleared his throat.

The old miller rose to his feet and stretched, his bones popping and cracking from sitting in the damp night air for so long. Over an hour had passed since he had first begun his tale of life among the Randirrim, and his body felt stiff and more aged than usual. "Lasses, a fire would be good to warm these old bones, but those devils who search for you might spy it. Tenacious they are, and they will not easily give up searching for you." 

"I wish they would just go away to wherever they came and leave us in peace!" Elffled exclaimed hotly.

"They will not, my dear lass, for you are too fine a prize to relinquish," Tarlanc replied as he lit his pipe.

"At least we gave the slavers the slip," Elfhild boasted proudly, hoping that Tarlanc would agree. 

"So you think, my dear, but they have sent orcs upon your trail, and those rascals will never give up until they have either found you or else been called off the search by their masters." Tarlanc sent a puff of smoke curling into the dark night.

"Oh, Tarlanc, do not frighten us!" Elfhild exclaimed, glancing around to make sure that no orcs had crept up upon them in the darkness. 

"There are worse creatures who could be seeking you, but that, lasses, you will never have to fear." Briefly he thought of the demon riders of the skies, and then shuddered. How horrible it would be to be pursued by one of those fiends! "No, such as they would never deign to trouble runaway slave girls like yourselves." Shaking away the thoughts of the winged terrors, he gave the girls a wry smile. "Now I have rested long enough. As soon as I refresh my throat with a draught of wine, I am ready to resume my story." As Tarlanc drank from the wineskin, Elffled fetched a blanket from Mithril's saddlebags and draped it around the old miller's shoulders. "Ahhh, that is much better," he smiled up at her as she walked back to her place. 

"Before we set out, the men and I talked it over, and we decided that in the time that Tabahanza and Dezi had been missing, they could not have traveled more than four or five miles at most. I doubted that it was that much, for my wife was with child and Dezi was still insisting that he was crippled. Although it seemed unlikely that they had gone northeast and crossed the fords over the Gilrain and Serni, I decided that just to make sure, a party of men would scout in that direction. If any of the residents had seen them cross, one of the scouts would ride back to the camp while the others would wait until help arrived. Another party would travel north on the Ethring road, while the rest of us went west and south. Wedri had agreed to stay behind to watch the camp and send out more men in case they were needed.

"Pere offered to ride with me, and we set out towards the west, following the bank of the estuary. After journeying several miles, we saw the lights of a ramshackle hovel. Yawning and scratching his belly, a fat, sour-faced man came to the door. When I inquired if he had seen Tabahanza and Dezi, he gave me a bleary look and then laughed uproariously as if that were the most humorous thing in the world. 'So your woman has run away with another man, has she?' he howled, slapping his thigh. 'No, no one here has seen them. Now go away or I will set my dogs on you!' The reception at the other cottages along the road was not much better, and feeling downhearted, Pere and I considered turning back, but decided to go on ahead. 

"We had traveled on the road another half mile when we came to a grove of mixed evergreen and oak, and the thick forest seemed to close in around us. We were riding under a canopy of oak branches when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A fallow deer buck, alarmed at our passage, plunged across our path and raced off into the trees at the other side of the road. 

"Snorting in terror, Pere's horse reared, almost unseating its surprised rider as it lashed the air with its forelegs. When the beast's hooves slammed to the ground again, it plunged forward, its hooves striking sparks from the pavement as it galloped down the road. In its wild flight, the animal slipped, crashing to its knees and throwing Pere over its head. 

"'Pere, are you hurt?' I cried as I jumped from the saddle and rushed to him, but Pere was already on his feet and shuffling stiffly towards his horse. The animal stood a few feet away, its head down, its dilated nostrils sending out billowing clouds of steam into the cool air. When he reached his mount, Pere bent down and ran his hands over both forelegs. 

"'No, I am unhurt, but it seems the fall has lamed my mount,' he replied glumly as he stroked the trembling animal's neck. 'What luck! What wretched, foul luck!'

"'Yes, I see that,' I remarked gravely, shaking my head. 'Poor beast! I hope the fall has not ruined him.'

"Pere frowned. 'Tarlanc, wait here and I will take my horse back to camp and return with another.'

"'There is no time for that,' I told him. 'I will go on alone.'

"Reluctantly we parted, with Pere promising that he would return as soon as he could. I watched as he slowly led his crippled mount away into the inky darkness. Going to my own steed, I swung into my saddle and headed down the Gilrain road. In a way, I was glad that Pere was gone, because there would be no one to interfere once I had found Dezi.

"Along the coast of southern Gondor, the winters are usually mild, although deeper into the interior the weather is cooler with some snow in the mountains of Dor-en-Ernil. Often the coast is breezy, especially in autumn and winter, and winds from the sea sometimes blow up the river valleys. As I rode towards the west, the river to my left, a chilly wind from the sea sighed up the mouth of the Gilrain, striking me in the face and whipping my cloak about me. Bowing my head to the wind, I pulled my hood close about my face and urged my horse into a slow trot. 

"Alone with my thoughts, I rode in the darkness, listening to the rhythmic monotony of the horse's iron shoes striking the pavement. After Pere's horse had fallen, the torch had been snuffed out, and we had forgotten in our haste that the unused brands were stored in Pere's saddlebags. The absence of light did not matter, though, for I wished to travel in stealth. I had little difficulty seeing, for the light dusting of frost on the bare wintry landscape dimly illuminated my surroundings. Another gust of wind from the inlet drove up the valley, and with it brought the faint sound of voices."


	22. Catalyst of Tragedy

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Now, lasses," Tarlanc told them, "I come to the part in my recounting that brings the greatest grief to my old heart. Even the passage of long years does not lessen my sorrow." Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, the old miller cleared his throat.

Elfhild gently touched his shoulder. "You do not have to tell us if the memory pains you too greatly."

"No," Tarlanc assured her with a wan smile. "I will continue. Somehow... I feel that I must. 

"After I heard the voices, I turned off the main road. Forest lay on both sides of me, the trees black shadows against the dim of night. The trunks of young trees rose up like poles, straight and tall, while here and there older, thicker ones stood like barriers of darkness. Meandering through the woods, I found a narrow path and turned down its course.

"Rounding a wide bend in the trail, I could see the ruddy glow of a campfire through the woods. My heart hammered in my chest, and my hands startled to tremble on the reins. Halting my horse in a woody copse, I strained my eyes to peer through the darkness. Could I have found the secret hideaway of my enemy? Was he holding my wife there? Had he harmed her? Too far away to see anything other than the flickering campfire, I dismounted and tied my good beast to a bush. With no sound of hooves to betray me, I could steal through the dark woods and spy upon the occupants of the camp.

"Though my anger was great, I still was afraid of Dezi, for I knew that he was strong enough to kill a man with his bare hands. I am not a brave man, and the thought of facing the giant alone was a sobering one. Then a revelation dawned upon me that was every bit as chilling. Perhaps those voices that I had heard belonged to brigands, desperate, bloodthirsty men who preyed upon travelers on the Gilrain Road. I almost laughed when I thought what irony it would be if I, the adopted son of the 'thieving Randirrim,' were killed by robbers! Shuddering with apprehension at these dismal thoughts, I tried to reassure myself by rubbing the hilt of my dagger.

"Keeping as quiet as I could, I moved closer, careful to stay in the shadows beyond the fire. I reasoned that if they were robbers, I would quickly retreat back to where I had tied my horse. Hiding in the protective shelter of the woods, I looked ahead, and there before me I saw... no one!"

"No one?" Elffled asked, suddenly left feeling confused.

"Just what I said, lass... no signs that anyone had been there except for the campfire glowing brightly, casting its amber light upon the rocky, frost-covered ground. I can remember that place as well as if I were seeing it right before my eyes. The river was below the camp, and I can still hear the thunder of the water at the bottom of the cliff as it churned and tossed on its way to the bay... Whenever I think of that night, I can always see the image of the great dead pine which jutted precariously over the craggy prominence of the cliff. Damaged during a storm, the rotting tree had been partially torn from the ground, the bottom half of its roots still clutching desperately at the rocky earth. From where I viewed the toppled giant, I wondered what kept it from sliding from its precarious position and plunging over the brink of the abyss."

"Tarlanc, how scary!" Elffled shivered, little quivers of fear making her shoulders shake.

"Aye, lass, it was a frightening place. This whole stretch of the riverbank was a long section of cliffs and steep, rocky slopes which were being undermined by the river."

"And there was no one near the campfire?" Elfhild queried, her mind trying to unravel this mystery.

"None - that I could see," answered Tarlanc, looking directly at her. "However, I spied a cloak spread out upon the ground near the fire. There was even a jug of wine close by the garment. A man would have to be a fool not to know that whoever had left those things there would be coming back for them when it was safe. I froze where I stood, hardly daring to move, my eyes scanning the clearing and my ears straining to hear the slightest noise. They were out there somewhere but where, I did not know. They might even be sneaking up upon me at that very moment!" Suddenly he wondered if the orcs were sneaking up on him and the twins even as he told his story. He felt a shudder of fear race down his spine. "I am an old fool," he told himself, "to be frightened by memories!" 

"What happened?" Elffled gasped as she nervously twisted the material of her skirt in her hands.

"Well, lass, while I was pondering these things, I heard a horse neighing from deep in the woods. Soon my own mount answered its anxious whinnies. Any hope of secrecy had been dashed, and I knew that my unknown host had been alerted to the presence of an intruder. I considered running."

"Oh, Tarlanc!" Elffled clutched her sister's hand tightly. "I would have been terrified!"

"So was I, lass, but at least now I was sure of one thing. Whoever owned the horse, it could not be Dezi, for since his crippling fall, he had never ridden. I reasoned that if this had been an outlaw camp, I would have already been ambushed and murdered. I decided to take the chance that the occupants were probably travelers who had run when they heard me coming. 'Hail! Is anyone here?' I called out and waited for an answer. Suddenly it seemed that the woods were filled with eyes and they were all directed at me. 'Hail!' I cried again, my heart pounding in my chest. Then, suddenly, I heard the booming challenge of a familiar voice - Dezi!

"'Tarlanc!' he shouted as he hobbled out of the trees and came into the circle of the firelight. 'I wondered how long you would hide in there before you mustered up the courage to show yourself! You always were a coward!' 

"'Where is my wife?' I demanded, not having the patience to play his game. 'I know you have taken her!'

"'Safe, little man, she is safe.' The light of the flame cast every detail of his leering face into stark outlines of ridges and hollows, and his ugly countenance resembled that of a monster.

"'I knew it was you all along who had stolen Tabahanza! What have you done with my wife?" I demanded, my anger burning hot.

"'Taking better care of her than you ever did,' he laughed, a nasty, ugly sound.

"As we confronted each other, Tabahanza slipped out of the trees and into the clearing. 'Tarlanc, I am sorry!' she cried, her voice high and shrill with emotion. She tried to rush to me, but Dezi caught her arm and held her back. She looked up at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and then her eyes turned back to me. 'Oh, Tarlanc, I can explain everything! When we heard you approach, we hid in the woods, thinking you were a robber! Everything is all a misunderstanding, and nothing is what you might think!'

"The two of them stood close together, Tabahanza clutching his arm. From the guilty look in her eyes, I was sure that I had caught them in the very act of love. I could feel my fury pounding in my skull, throbbing in my temples. 'Why were you ever out here in the first place?' I almost shouted, my rage close to getting the better of me.

"Stepping away from Tabahanza, Dezi hobbled closer to the fire and rested his weight upon his unneeded crutch. No king upon his throne or victorious general upon the field of battle could have looked more arrogant and sure of himself than did Dezi as he curled up his lips and sneered at me.

"'Oh, Tarlanc, it is not as you think! Oh, by the Gods, no!' Tabahanza cried, stepping towards me.

"'Tabahanza, perhaps you should let me tell this,' Dezi chortled. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but then fell silent and dropped her eyes to the ground. 'Tarlanc, you weakling! You never should have tried to keep her in a cage--' Dezi began, but Tabahanza cut him off.

"'Oh, darling Tarlanc, you must understand!' she cried out desperately, suddenly regaining her voice. 'I have felt so watched and closed in, like a bird in a cage. If I had not gotten away, I feared that soon the very walls of the wain would close in upon me and I would go mad! I had to go out and walk about the camp for a while. You must understand, my beloved husband, that I was born of a people who value freedom above everything, and to pen them in is to destroy their spirit.' She gazed at me, her eyes begging for understanding, but my expression was stern as I waited for her to continue.

"'This afternoon, I could bear it no longer, and so I dressed in my warmest clothing. I planned only to stroll about the camp for a while...' Her voice broke and she looked down at the ground. 'I visited with my parents for a while, and then bidding them goodbye, I started back to our wain. Then, as I stood at the door, I thought how simple it would be just to - to walk away. Our wain is the last in the line, and the door opens to the woods. Knowing that no one could see me, I slipped into the sanctuary of the forest.' Her large, dark eyes framed by long lashes looked shyly into mine. 'I - I do not know what came over me. I never meant anything wrong!' Her voice was piteous, and I thought I heard the sound of shame in it.

"'Go on!' I snapped.

"Closing her eyes, she worried her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitating as though she were having to plan her words more carefully before she spoke them. When those long eyelashes fluttered open again, her eyes were sad. 'How wonderful it felt to be away from the chattering and constant surveillance of my relatives! I felt free again, for the first time in weeks! Is it so wrong to want to be by yourself if only for a little while?' she asked imploringly, but I did not answer. 'Caught up in the pure joy of walking in the brisk air, I lost track of time. I had wandered far away from the camp when I realized that it was growing late in the afternoon. I confess, my beloved Tarlanc, that I feared I was lost, for I had walked farther than I had planned, and I was in a section of the forest that was unfamiliar. I decided my best course was to follow the sinking sun, since I was sure the camp lay in that direction, and so I turned around and tried to trace my steps back.

"'I had just passed through a tall grove of trees when I heard Dezi's voice... he was singing a merry little tune to himself, and it made me smile. I came into the small clearing where he was gathering firewood and loading it into the baskets on the back of his mother's gentle old mare. Though he did not ask for it, I offered to help him, and - and - I suppose we began talking.' She started to weep again, and Dezi's repulsive dark face grew gentle as he looked at her with deep concern, placing his huge hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

"Though I was moved by her distress, I was determined not to show it, for I was convinced by now that she had been unfaithful to me. I only stared at her with features harsh and rigid. I wondered if she would be able to go on, but after a choking sob, she spoke up in a tremulous, halting voice. 'My cousin and I talked so long, and I suppose we forgot the time. And since it had grown so terribly cold, Dezi built the fire. And - and - and you know the rest, my darling.' She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"'Obviously, my beloved wife, neither you nor Dezi have any comprehension of the passage of time.' Her words had condemned her in my mind. I wondered if she and Dezi had planned all along to tryst in the woods as soon as I was away. She was lying and attempting to hide her infidelity with a ridiculous story about being lost. Enraged now, my mind engulfed with anger, frustration and jealousy, I decided that when I took her back to the camp, she would pay, for I would whip her through the streets like the adulteress she was. 

"'You do believe me, do you not, Tarlanc?' She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"'Of course, I believe you... I believe you pulled up your skirts and spread your thighs for a simpleton," I taunted, not caring now how bitingly caustic my words sounded. 

"Tabahanza cried out as though I had slapped her in the face. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she glared at me through blazing, tear-filled eyes. 'How could you say such things to me, Tarlanc? Did you ever think how unfair you were to forbid me even to speak to my own cousin?' The tears streamed down her face and she stomped her foot angrily. 'Dezi and I have been companions since childhood - friends and companions, Tarlanc, not lovers!

"'Lovers, Tabahanza? Perhaps not in childhood... I would not be so low as to suggest such a thing. But now I wonder if you have allowed yourself to be seduced by him, committing the sins of incest and adultery.' As my voice rose, I pointed wildly in Dezi's direction. 'Perhaps you were blinded by passion and did not realize how dangerous this man is! He hates me and would like to see me dead! I have tried to protect you from him all this time, and as soon as I am away, you rushed straight into his arms!'

"'What?' an indignant Tabahanza exclaimed. 'Dezi would never hurt me! I do not know why everyone is so protective of me all of a sudden. It is like everyone thinks I am about to die!'

"'Tarlanc,' Dezi's voice rumbled as he stepped closer to me, 'I think you have said enough! Not only have you insulted me by accusing me of adultery with my own cousin, but you have hurt poor Tabahanza deeply! You are a very mean, petty, selfish man!'

"'And you are the dim-witted bastard who has cuckolded me!' I shouted as I drew my knife and rushed at him. A sneer on his face, he tossed his crutch away and stood there, waiting for me, unmoving, as steady as a rock. Furious, all reason having left me, I saw Dezi through a red haze of madness. Aiming at his throat, I struck out at him with my knife, realizing far too late the stupidity of my move. His left hand snaked out with the speed of an adder, blocking my thrust and seizing my wrist before my knife could come in contact with his body. His right hand roughly pushed my shoulder back as he jerked my knife hand towards him. Before I knew what was happening, he had thrown me over his left hip and onto the ground. With a great whoop, he pounced on me, slamming his immense weight onto me and pinning me to the ground.

"Laughing uproariously at me, he clenched my wrist in his powerful grasp, twisting it with a pressure that I thought would crush every bone. As we struggled for control of the dagger, our eyes met, and instantly I knew that Dezi was playing his old games, enjoying prolonging my pain and humiliation. Though I bit my lip until I tasted blood, I could not repress the groans of agony which tore from my throat, and I whimpered like a child. The knife slid from my hand, and grabbing the hilt, Dezi put the blade to my throat.

"'Want to die now?' he asked cheerfully as he looked into my eyes. 'Or do you want to continue the game with Dezi?'

"'I do not consider a knife at my throat my idea of 'game,'' I remarked dryly, remaining perfectly motionless, convinced that Dezi would cut my throat if I moved even a finger.

"'Little fellow, I am not through playing!' he giggled as he brought the knife up to my cheek and slowly sliced across the skin. Sucking in air, I filled my lungs, holding my breath as I forced myself not to give into the pain and satisfy Dezi's cruel sense of humor. Looking up into his crazed eyes, I braced myself and waited for the death stroke.

"I heard the frantic shrieks of Tabahanza above us. 'Stop it! Stop it! Oh, stop it now!' she cried, her hands tearing at her hair.

"'This scum was never good enough for you, Tabahanza! You should have stayed with me!' He looked up at her and seemed to forget the knife in his hand, which was still poised over my cheek. 'You will be much better off after he is dead!' Dezi chortled as he pursed his lips together and then launched a stream of spittle in my face. 'He is bad, Tabahanza! You should know that! I am punishing him for his meanness!' Studying my face, Dezi touched my bloodied cheek with a finger. 'We play a new game now, weakling! Maybe you will enjoy it as much as the last one!' He pinched my cheek savagely as he lifted his massive bulk off my body and lurched to his feet. 

"'No! No!' Tabahanza cried, gripping his arm. 'Dezi, he is bleeding! Do not hurt him any more!' 

"'Tabahanza,' he softened his voice to a gentle entreaty, 'Tarlanc was never my friend, and he hurt Dezi's feelings! He was always hurting Dezi's feelings! I always wanted him to play with me, but he thought he was too good. You know how those Gondorians are! They are the high and mighty because their ancestors went to some island in the sea, while ours stayed home. You know it is true, Tabahanza!' Dezi's voice was whining, like a small child who wanted his way. 'I will not take that treatment from anyone, Tabahanza! He has treated poor, crippled Dezi like dirt long enough!'

"'Oh, no, Dezi, Tarlanc was never like that!' Tabahanza tried to reason with him. 'He always liked you. He told me so! Please let us go back to the camp, Dezi. I have the cake that you like, and some apples. We can have a party! Would you not like that? Remember how we had parties and fetes when we were children? I know you do! I can see you are smiling. After we eat, I will sing to you, all the songs that you love so much!'"

Tarlanc halted in telling his tale, and much to the irritation of the sisters, he leaned his head back and gazed up into the sky.

"Oh, Tarlanc," Elfhild groaned, "why are you stopping? You just do that to prolong the suspense!"

"No, indeed I did not, Elfhild. I saw a beautiful bright red shooting star streak quickly across the horizon, pulling behind it a great tail of orange fire." He gestured with his hand to where he had last seen the shooting star. "Forgive me the delay."

"That is quite all right," Elffled told him, smiling. She made a note to herself that, should she make the journey back to Rohan, she should never fall in love with a Gondorian man, for they could be suspicious and prone to jealous rages.

"Ahem," Tarlanc cleared his throat and launched back into the tale. "Lasses, I knew what Tabahanza was trying to do. She was attempting to cajole the giant into letting me go. While Dezi was a dim-wit, I knew he was never that gullible.

"'Let me loose, Tabahanza!' He shook his arm free of her as though she had been a kitten. 'Now you go over there and watch us. Tarlanc and I are going to play a new kind of game!' A wide smile upon his bloated face, the monster tossed the knife into the darkness. 'Come now, Tarlanc, get on your feet so we can play!' He giggled like a lad, a very incongruous sound coming from the throat of a man of his great bulk and strength.

"'Dezi, what kind of trick is this now?' I grated out at him, all the rage and hatred dripping like acid from my tongue. Suddenly Dezi was upon me, wrapping his powerful arms around my middle and forcing the air from my lungs. He squeezed my ribs until I thought they would break. I brought my fist back and struck him a weak jab in the chin, but it was like hitting a wall of stone, and Dezi only grunted. I thought perhaps I had done some damage, though, for I felt his hold on me loosening. Yet it was only so that he could slide his hand between my legs and grasp me tightly. His other arm moved to my shoulder and seized the muscles in a killer hold. The bastard must have been enjoying the pain he was inflicting to my crotch, because he squeezed even tighter. With a strange gurgling sound deep in his throat that appeared to be a demented laugh, he bent his head down, slamming it into my chest. Close to fainting now, I heard him grunt as he lifted me upon his shoulders as though I were a child.

"'No! No!' Tabahanza screamed, beating at his chest with her small fists.

"'Please get back, Tabahanza, lest harm come to you!' came his strident voice, the sharpness seasoned with his love and regard for her. Ignoring her feeble blows, he turned from her and strengthened his hold on me. My added weight made it more difficult for him to walk on his injured leg, and he limped towards the craggy cliff that loomed over the Gilrain far below. With each stride of his unsteady gait, I was tossed back and forth like a ship on the sea. In his mighty grasp, I was as helpless as a suckling babe. Deep in pain, I closed my eyes and groaned.

"'Little man,' came his triumphant words as he bore me towards the precipice, 'this is a good time for you to learn how to fly before your guts get smashed out on the rocks below!'

"My eyes flew open. 'Dezi,' I hissed through my pain, 'let us learn to fly together! We can play all the way down!'

"'Too late, little man! You lost your opportunity long ago! Dezi does not like you anymore!'

"From my miserable position high over Dezi's head, I saw Tabahanza pick up something from the ground and follow behind us. Nearing the brink of the cliff, I could hear far below the tumultuous waters of the river, and wondered if I had any chance at all of surviving such a fall. Choking back her sobs, Tabahanza moved behind Dezi. He turned his head as though to say something to her, but before the words could be spoken, she swung the crutch back like a club and caught him across his injured leg. Disbelief painfully etched on his face, Dezi gasped out, 'Tabahanza! Why did you hurt Dezi?' He toppled to the ground like a mighty tree hewn down by the woodsmen, sending me hurtling against the capsized base of the tree.

"'Come, my darling, we must flee,' she called to me desperately. Dazed with pain and the impact of my fall, I could only stare at her and shake my head groggily. Finally my vision cleared enough so that I could make out images, and I staggered to my feet. Dezi still lay upon the ground cursing and groaning, his rage burning hotter than the fires of my forge. I knew that if he laid hands upon me, he would tear me to small, bloody pieces. I stumbled towards Tabahanza, but before I could reach her, Dezi lurched forward, grabbing me by the ankle and throwing me to the ground. Bellowing like a wounded bull, he rose to his knees and then struggled painfully to his feet. Reaching down for me, he grasped the shoulders of my tunic and lifted me up to face him. 

"'I want you to beg me for mercy before I tear your tongue from your mouth! I want to see the blood burst from your eyes as I tear them from their sockets!' Sobbing, his repulsive face as red as a spanked baby's bottom, Dezi sniffed and blinked away the tears which flowed down his face like endless springs.

"'Go to hell!' I spat in his face. His great brutish hands went around my throat, and I grabbed his wrists to force him away, but it was no use. He was as strong as a young bull.

"'No!' Tabahanza shrieked and threw herself against Dezi's weak side, knocking him off balance, forcing him to release his hold on my neck. Tabahanza's hands fastened on his huge muscled forearm and she pulled against him with all her weight. While he tried to disentangle himself, I drew my fist back and hit him in the nose, sending a stream of blood splattering in showers over the three of us.

"'The bad man hurt Dezi again!' he whimpered as he stared at me in disbelief. 'You play mean games, Tarlanc, but Dezi will not let you get away with it!' Jerking his arm away from Tabahanza, he threw her to the ground and looked at me with eyes full of twisted hate. I tried to kick him in the crotch but he blocked me with his leg. Grabbing the neck of my tunic, he began dragging me back towards the cliff. 

"No! No!' On her hands and knees on the ground, Tabahanza screamed as she struggled to her feet. 'I will not let you do this terrible thing!' She moved between us and the edge. 

"'Tabahanza! No! Get back!' I warned her.

"'Tabahanza, Tabahanza, we are still playing the game!' He turned to me and snarled in my face. 'Like to make fun of Dezi and hurt him, do you? You will play some more before Dezi finally throws you over the cliff!' He held my tunic with one hand and struck me on the chin, knocking me almost senseless and once more sending me reeling against the leaning trunk. As Dezi's fingers tightened around my throat, I could feel the rough bark scraping against my spine. Screaming, Tabahanza clawed at Dezi's back and shoulders, trying to pull him away from me. In a moment of blind rage, he kicked out at her with his foot, sending her stumbling towards the edge.

"At that moment, the great trunk shifted under our combined weight and began tilting even more towards the chasm. The roots creaked as some were torn from the soil. Dezi looked up in fear, momentarily loosening his hold around my neck. Managing to tear a hand free, I brought it back, striking him in the mouth and hearing with satisfaction the crunch of teeth. Dezi screamed and stumbled backward. I looked around for Tabahanza and saw her near the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, to my horror, a great crack appeared across the ground at the base of the tree, and I was knocked to my feet. 'Tabahanza!' I screamed as the immense pine ripped from the earth and began to topple downward. I crawled towards her, reaching out my hand for her to grab, but she was frozen with terror.

"'Tarlanc!' she shrieked, her fear paralyzing her. 'Help me! Help me!'

"'Grab my hand!' I begged her, but it was too late. The fissure in the ground widened, separating us. As the earth shook and rumbled, the tree plunged over the cliff, carrying with it a mass of rock and earth and - and," Tarlanc choked out a sob, "my beloved Tabahanza.

"Lasses, the tale is finished." Tarlanc's voice was husky with sorrow as he reached down and patted Haun, who looked up at him sympathetically. Neither girl made any attempt to hide her crying. Elfhild's small hand crept up and took the old man's gnarled hand in her own. "Ah, lass," he finally managed to speak, "the time for weeping is over. All this happened many years ago." He turned his head and the light of the lantern caught the tears that slid down his wrinkled cheeks. Sighing heavily, he wiped his eyes and looked at the sisters. "Ah, but there is a bit more, if you would care to hear it..."


	23. Sad Endings

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Tarlanc," Elfhild murmured softly as she lay her hand upon his arm, "perhaps we all should go to bed. You have been telling stories for a very long time."

"No, lass, no." Tarlanc's head shot up. "I must finish this first." He cleared his throat. "As Dezi and I stood looking down into the gorge and listening to the sounds of the churning waters far below, neither of us had any fight remaining in us. The shock of Tabahanza's death had left the fierce giant as docile as a small child. Both of us were shaken by the memory of her screams, which still seemed to reverberate from the walls of the canyon. Dezi could only gape into the darkness where she had fallen, his great, broad frame racked with shuddering sobs of despair. Neither of us spoke as we stood there. There were no words of comfort or blame. We both knew in our hearts that we were equally guilty. There was no need to say anything anyway. Our shared misery had brought an unspoken truce and forged between us a comradeship of the damned.

"It was far too dark to permit a descent down the treacherous face of the cliff without risking certain death. Both of us knew that there was no hope anyway that Tabahanza could have survived that dreadful fall. However, with the dawn, we climbed down the unforgiving wall and into the gorge below, where the malevolent waters surged dark and deadly towards the sea. Though we searched up and down the banks of the river, we found nothing, and with an overpowering sorrow in our hearts, we said our farewells to our beloved Tabahanza and made our way back to the top. 

"Upon our return, we found Wedri, his two sons, and a number of the men of the tribe. They knew by our tense and strained faces that something terrible had happened. I could not control my sobs as Wedri searched my face. 'Where is my daughter, Tarlanc?' he asked me.

"'She has perished, sir.' My pain was so intense that I could barely speak.

"'How?' His face was stony, but I sensed that he already knew the answer.

"'The cliff gave way, and she fell to her death,' I mumbled out the answer. 

"'Why was she here?' Wedri grated out. 'Just tell me why was she ever here?'

"'She was lost, sir, and Dezi found her.' I looked to the giant, but he was still staring slack-jawed into the chasm. I never told of the terrible fight on the edge of the cliff and how Dezi had tried to kill me. What good would it have done? I told Wedri as much of the truth as I could, and by then we were both weeping unashamedly. I do not think he really believed me, but what could he say? Tabahanza was lost forever." Tarlanc fell silent, bowing his head in shame and sorrow.

"Oh, Tarlanc, that is one of the saddest stories I have ever heard in my life!" Elfhild dabbed at the tears which trickled down her cheeks. 

"How heartbreaking to think of that poor girl and her unborn child dying in that deep and dismal gorge!" Elffled exclaimed, sniffling.

Reaching for the wineskin, Tarlanc drank long and deeply before he put it back on the blanket. He stared into the light of the candle and rubbed the pale scar on his cheek where Dezi had sliced his face so long ago. "During the intervening years, I have wondered if I should have killed Dezi, though he was innocent of kidnapping my wife. By not slaying him, I broke the vow that I had made to the Valar. But what is worse? Breaking an oath or seeking revenge? Revenge can never restore that which is lost, and in the final accounting, it reaps only bitter rewards."

"Did Dezi and you ever make peace between yourselves?" Elffled asked, uncomfortable discussing such weighty matters.

"Well, if you are thinking that Dezi and I somehow became friends, that did not happen. Though we never came to blows again, we gave each other a wide berth. Seldom did we even speak, unless we met face to face, and that suited me just fine." 

"After all that heartache and sorrow, did you leave the tribe?" Elfhild inquired softly.

"Even though I continued living amongst the Randirrim, I never again felt one of the tribe after Tabahanza and the child had perished. As each year passed, I became more and more restless, feeling myself a stranger among my wife's people. My thoughts often turned to the village where I was born and my father's mill."

"What became of Pere and Meri?" Elfhild asked, somewhat sleepily. It had been a long night, after all.

"'Eventually, Meri and Pere married - two very lovely girls, I might say - and when their wives gave them two fine sons, at least poor Ahãma knew some joy again. She and I both remained close, since there was a great bond between us."

Tarlanc's voice had become remote and detached, with long pauses between the words. Perhaps the rigors of the trip and his long night of storytelling had fatigued the old man, or else he was remembering his doomed love. Reliving scenes from long ago, perchance he did not wish to return.

"What happened to Dezi?" Elfhild ventured. She was hesitant to break the silence, wondering if it would be kinder to let the old man wander through the fields of remembrance, or bring him back to the present. 

"Oh, Dezi," Tarlanc chuckled, his eyes brightening as his mind snapped back to the present. "Though Dezi's comprehension was too sluggish for anything more complicated than caring for livestock and performing simple tasks, his mother was quite a shrewd lady, well-versed in business. While she still plied the family trade of jewelry making, she did far better at horse trading. Hebeli was not above applying her feminine wiles to convince a buyer that the nag which she was attempting to sell was a noble steed. Through these endeavors, she was able to accumulate a good amount of money. She saved these funds until she had enough to pay the bride price of a beautiful young lass for whom Dezi had been burning hot for several years. When the girl delivered a daughter the next year, Dezi named her Tabahanza. It was after this that I thought the time for me to ride back north had come at last." The old miller smiled ruefully.

"I doubted any would miss me save perhaps Ahãma. When I went to tell her farewell, she had insisted that she read my palm and look into the crystal one last time. Though I thought better of it, remembering as I did how easily it is to be led astray by these prognostications, I allowed her to have her way and divine my future once again. Perhaps that was a mistake," he chuckled dryly.

"Why? Did she predict something dreadful?" Elffled leaned forward slightly.

"No, lass, nothing to fear. She said that my life would be spent in peace, but to beware when I met a woman who dwelt within a man's body. What ridiculous nonsense! Who ever heard of such a thing?" Tarlanc scratched his head.

The twins giggled at the absurdity of such a prophecy. "A woman in a man's body?" Elfhild raised an eyebrow. "How is that even possible?"

"Perhaps Ahãma meant a disguise?" Elffled suggested, taking a more practical interpretation of the strange prediction.

"Perhaps Ahãma had seen so much sadness that her powers were failing. Who knows?" Tarlanc shrugged. "Now we near the end of my tale. After nine years of living amongst the Randirrim and wandering with them on their journeys, I rode north to the village of my birth. You can imagine my many doubts and uncertainties as I rode over the bridge and beheld the mill pond for the first time in many years. Would my father be willing to accept me, or would he still be so enraged at my rebellion that he would forbid me to step foot in his house?" He looked to the two sleepy girls and smiled when he saw they were still awake.

"As I reined in my horse and gazed at the swans gracefully swimming over the serene waters, I noticed a lad standing by the mill-race. The boy was regulating the flow of water from the sluice gate to the mill wheel. As I remembered the hours I had spent at that very task when I was a boy, I smiled. Lasses," Tarlanc explained as an aside, "this is a very important task, because if too much water is allowed to hit the wheel, the millstone can spin and vibrate far too quickly. I am sure you can conjecture what problems might be caused if such a thing happens."

"The wheel would be damaged," Elfhild offered, remembering the times she had visited her dear friend Swithwyn, the miller's daughter, back in Rohan.

"I watched the boy for a while. At last he noticed me. 'Hullo, sir, would you be looking for the miller?' came the cheerful inquiry.

"'Aye, lad, that I would,' I answered. 'Is he in the mill?'

"'Nay, sir. Galon the miller has ridden off to the village on business, but he should be coming back soon.' The boy smiled shyly before a more serious expression came over his face. 'Sir, if you would not be taking offense at my words, I could not help noticing that you have the look of the trail about you. Have you traveled a great distance?'

"'Aye, lad,' I dismissed his inquiry with a nod, for though he did not know it, his words had filled me with dread. A premonition clutched my heart with an icy chill. I hoped I had misunderstood his words. 'Is not Saelon yet the miller?' I asked him.

"'Nay, sir,' he shook his head sadly, his brows knitted together. 'Two years ago this winter, a grievous fever beset the good miller, and he died a few days later. It was very sad, sir; he was just in the prime of life when he was struck down, leaving this world of tears and sorrow.' The boy took off his cap and held it respectfully in front of him. 'I should hope his spirit is in a better place.'

"Lasses, I am sure that my expression must have given me away, for the boy looked at me strangely. I was unable to speak for the hard lump which constricted my throat. I rode slowly along the edge of the mill pond, and by the time I came to the yard in front of the building, I had composed myself. 'And now Galon grinds the grain in his father's stead. What of the other sons?' I questioned him.

"Then, sir, you must have known the old miller!' A surprised look came over the boy's face. 'They are well, last I heard, all of them serving Lord Caun as men-at-arms at his hall,' he replied. The boy smiled broadly, as rural lads do when they think that they have impressed a stranger.

"'And Miller Saelon's wife - what of her?' I inquired. 

"'She prospers in good health and keeps house for her son.' The boy beamed, sure that he was the first one to regale the stranger with his vast store of local lore. 'Sir,' he cocked his head, at last realizing that for a stranger, I knew a remarkable amount of information, 'did you know them?'

"'You could say that, lad.' Taking a few copper coins from my purse, I tossed them over the mill trace, laughing as he scrambled to catch them before they fell in the water.

"'I am beholden to you, sir, for your generosity. Thank you most kindly!' he exclaimed as he pocketed the coins. 'Sir, if you do not mind me saying this, but you look to have come from a long way, and you and your steed must be thirsty. There is a well by the cottage over yonder.' He pointed to the familiar path through the woods, and I felt the constriction return to my throat. 'I would be pleased to take you there.'

"'Come, lad, and show me the way,' I replied.

"'Fine horse you have there, sir,' he told me as he walked by the side of my mount and touched his long, black mane.

"'Aye, lad, he is that,' I replied. 'I came by him in Southern Gondor.'

"'Oh, sir,' the lad gazed up at me with awe written in his eyes, 'I never saw one quite like him, both black and white as he is, and with the long, uncut hair feathering from his knees down to his hooves. Is he a war horse?'

"I shook my head and chuckled. 'Nay, lad. His breed was developed by the Randirrim to pull their wains. One of their chieftains owned both his sire and dam.'

"The boy's eyes grew even wider, and I supposed that he was thinking the same thing that most Gondorians believed, 'dirty, lying thieves!' He was silent the rest of the way to the cottage, and I knew that he was mulling over what I had just related to him.

"'Well, sir, I must be leaving you and get back to my work,' he told me right before we reached the cottage. I threw him another coin and he seemed pleased, bidding me farewell before he left.

"My thoughts were a jumble when I came to my old home." Tarlanc looked down at the hound that lay at his feet and he scratched gently behind Haun's ears. "I discovered that little had changed since the night so long ago when I had stolen away. I had just dismounted my horse and was looking around when the door of the cottage opened and my mother stepped through the doorway.

"'Sir, if you are looking for the miller, he is not here.' She gazed at me intently, and I wondered if she could recognize me. I did not think that possible, for I was a man grown now with a mustache and beard. She curtsied. 'Welcome, stranger. You will find the water from that well to be the purest and most refreshing in all the lord's lands.'

"'My lady,' I bowed, 'I am sure I will, and I thank you for allowing a weary traveler to enjoy a draught of its sweetness.'

"A strange, uncertain expression came over her face, and she cocked her head to one side. 'That voice,' she gasped as she clutched her heart. 'Do I know you?'

"'I am Tarlanc, your son,' I whispered.

"'My darling!' she cried as she rushed to me and enveloped me in her arms. 'You have come back to us!'

"'Yes, Mother. I have indeed returned at last,' I replied as we stood there, hugging each other as we laughed and cried. 

"Well, I suppose that is about all." Tarlanc stood up and smiled down at Haun, who had risen to his feet and was nuzzling his master's hand. "We should all retire to our bedrolls and find whatever sleep we can in what is left of the night." The sisters rose to their feet and looked at the old man and his faithful companion.

"Tarlanc, I have a question," Elfhild spoke up.

"I suppose we do not have to go to bed at this very moment," Tarlanc laughed amiably. "What is it, lass?"

"Since your brother was operating the mill when you returned, how did it ever come into your hands?"

"My younger brothers did not have much interest in running the mill, and they found employment in the service of Lord Caun as men-at-arms. They did quite well there, I must say, eventually saving enough money so that they could afford to get married. Galon, who ran the mill, died when he was fairly young from an injury received when some equipment fell upon him and crushed him. Poor fellow, he never married, though he was betrothed. Then when he was gone, I secured the lease from Lord Caun, and, well, that is what I was doing when two young thieves broke into my cottage." He smiled mischievously.

"And then you married Galwen?"

"Aye, yes, but not immediately. That happened a few years later after I had returned. We never should have married, for we never got along. I think Galwen realized that no one would ever replace the Randirric girl in my affections. Now my lovely lasses, I am going to bed. Come along, Haun!" Whistling a mournful tune, the old man went to his bedroll. That was all the girls saw of him until the next morning.

***

Lying upon her blanket, Elfhild gazed up at the stars and the silvery light of the almost full moon. Her mind kept revisiting the tale which she had heard. How tragic it had been! "Yet not every story has a happy ending," she reflected. Did that mean that those tales were somehow deficient because the endings were not all smiles and laughter? "No," she concluded wryly, "because, unfortunately, they are much more realistic than those with pleasant endings."

That day had certainly been the most unusual birthday that she and her sister had ever had. In the past, they had celebrated their special day with a party attended by relatives and friends, or a trip to the Midsummer fair in the village. But, even though Elfhild mourned for the happy times of the past, she could not complain about the companionship of the old miller... even though he was a bit long winded at times.

She had been horribly mistaken ever to think that this kindly old man meant them any harm. They were so lucky to have met him! If the Gods truly cared about lowly peasants, then they had granted the sisters' prayers for aid. Oh, if only they had met under different circumstances -- Elfhild thought, but then reflected that they never would have met at all had it not been for the war, for it was highly unlikely that they ever would have traveled so far east.

Closing her eyes, she turned over on her side. It was already so late, and she needed her sleep for the long journey tomorrow. She smiled softly to herself, for she could sleep peacefully this night. Though she had kept up a cheerful front and tried to convince herself that no evils would come to them on their journey, a sliver of doubt had begun to vex her mind like a thorn lodged deep within the skin. She did not like to admit it, even to herself, but all of her sister's fretful complaints had been justified. Could they have survived out here in the wilderness with very little food and naught but two stout sticks for weapons? Now they did not have to worry so much, for they had horses and a wise, old guide. 

Far beyond the darkness behind her eyelids, she could almost see her old village before her, though the mists of time were starting to gather around the buildings and imbue them with the rosy glow of nostalgia. It was strange, but sometimes she could not remember the exact appearance of her village before the war broke out. These were the last thoughts upon her mind as she drifted off to sleep.

Elffled's late night ruminations were much the same as those of her sister. Ever since Goldwyn had proposed her escape plan to the women, she had been against the idea. Though she was just as fearful of the Haradrim as the other women, still, they gave the captives food and saw to their needs. To oppose them seemed dangerous and foolhardy, and the consequences of such an action were too frightening even to consider. Then, too, where could they go? Their homes had been burnt, their villages destroyed, and their crops had all withered away in the drought. Surely they would starve to death along the way if they had not been recaptured first!

But now the sisters had Tarlanc. May the Powers that be and the spirits of the ancestors bless him; he would help them get back home! Perhaps their tale would yet have a happy ending. For the first time since they were captured by the orcs, Elffled allowed a spark of hope to be kindled within her heart, and it shone brightly, illuminating all the dreams which she had once held.


	24. Neithan and the Drúedain

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Bearing clay pitchers filled with water, the women attended to the thirsty guests at the feast. Though the occasion was a festive one, there was no chance that anyone would become intoxicated that day, for these folk shunned spirits of any kind. That in itself would be unusual enough, but these people were different in other ways; the most striking difference being their appearance. With their squat, ungainly legs and huge buttocks which swayed with every step, they would not be considered handsome by any people in Middle-earth save their own. There were pleasant smiles upon the uncomely faces of the serving women, though, as they laughed and joked while they filled the earthenware drinking cups of the guests gathered around the tables. Their garb was plain in keeping with their simple lives, and the women and men dressed much the same in kirtles of coarse fabric and kilts of dry grasses.

The occasion for the joyous celebration was twofold: it was Midsummer Eve, a commemoration of the ripe fecundity of summer, and, appropriately enough, a betrothal. After a long courtship, the headman's nephew had at last convinced a young maiden to plight her troth to him and had chosen this night for the betrothal feast. The young couple, both smiling shyly to each other and their guests, sat at the high table of the headman and his kin. Their beaming and doting relatives sat at lower, but no less exalted, places at the great table. Throughout the long night, earthen cups filled with refreshing spring water had been raised with the hopes of a happy marriage with many offspring. The latter wish was purely customary, expressed at every betrothal, with few having any real expectations that the wish would ever be fulfilled, for the Drúedain had few children. Still, though, the occasion was festive, and the betrothed couple was regaled throughout the evening with singing accompanied by drums and reed flutes.

Frugal and prudent though they were, still they had spared nothing of their provisions for the occasion, adding the customary mushrooms, fungus and roots to the meat of harts, hares, birds and small game which the huntsmen had provided. The food had long since been cleared, the hour had grown late, and the concluding toasts of the evening were being raised as the huge bonfires slowly died into glowing ash and embers.

Looking quite out of place among the much shorter Drúedain, a man of tall stature rose from his place at the headman's table and lifted up his cup. Scruffy looking and dark-haired, his gray eyes quick and keen, a lean and haggard look upon his face, he wore a worn green tunic of wool mixed with linen and breeches of deerskin, kept close to his calves by interlaced strips of leather.

Passing his hand over the surface of the water, he looked towards the West. After blessing the cup in the Drûgs' own language, of which he was somewhat fluent, he closed his eyes and raised the vessel on high. Pausing in silence for a few moments, his lids at last raised and his gray eyes rested upon the newly betrothed couple.

The man chose his words carefully, for, considering that Midsummer was a season of great fertility upon the earth, he thought it best not to point out that happy fact to a people who were known more for their celibacy than they were for the fruits of the marriage bed. "May each of your days together be filled with happiness and joy. May there be more rainbows than storms, more roses than thorns, and may you find far more days of gladness than you ever experience of sadness. With that, I should take my leave of you."

After lingering longer and exchanging more well wishes and farewells, the man at last broke away from the gathering. Happy choruses of "May your journeys be safe! Be well, man of the Land of Stone-houses! Come back and visit us soon!" rang in his ears. Striding on his long legs to the edge of the village, he heard the voice of the headman, Ghân-buri-Ghân, calling out behind him.

"Friend of my people, wait up! I had wish to talk with you before you left. Can you not remain with us a few days longer?"

Turning back to the Drûg who had followed him, the man smiled pleasantly. "Nay, Ghân, I have dined at your expense much too long, and should have been on my way two days ago. Once again you and your people have helped me as you have done in years past. Your kindness and healing skills shall never be forgotten."

"You have stayed this long. Why not longer?" inquired the gnarled headman, who hid his concern behind dark, impassive eyes. The Drúedain had been well acquainted with Neithan the wanderer ever since they found him close to death in their forest some years before. Stricken with a burning fever unknown to the Drûgs, the man had been weak and faint, suffering from exposure, dehydration and pressing perilously close to the edge of starvation.

Taking pity upon him, they had brought him to the house of the chieftain, Ghân-buri-Ghân. There, the wise and skilled Drûg healers slowly restored the man back to health. However, as the man's physical strength returned, the Drûgs quickly discovered that he was not entirely whole of mind, and was sometimes given to fits and bouts of madness. During these periods in which his mind wandered in and out of sanity, Neithan would oft go into a trance, talking to people who existed only in his mind, commanding soldiers who were not there, composing poetry that was nothing more than meaningless doggerel, seeing visions and making absurd predictions. When the sickness fell upon him, the Drúedain treated him kindly, doctoring him as best they could with soporific teas concocted from beneficial mushrooms, roots, plants and herbs. A kind people, the Drúedain did all they could for him, but after a year spent under their care, he had wandered away one night to come back from time to time and then to leave just as suddenly as he had come.

"My old friend," he placed his hand upon the small chieftain's shoulder, "when I was in the midst of giving my final toast, I felt the presence of Lhûnwen at my side... the shy sigh of the maiden... her sweet breath... the light touch of her hand upon my cheek..." A distracted look came over the man's face as he glanced away from the chieftain.

"Friend Neithan, I saw nothing." The chieftain grew alarmed, for Ghân knew that the madness must be returning to torment Neithan again.

"She is here with us now," Neithan vowed emphatically as a muscle jerked erratically under one eye. "Surely you see her?"

"Neithan," old Ghân moved in front of him, as though to block his path, "the sickness has come upon you once again and you are not at yourself. Come back with me to the village." He put his hand on Neithan's arm and looked imploringly up to his face.

"Ghân, I am no longer ill. You must not try to impede me. Now move out of my way!" His eyebrows furrowing, a dangerous expression had come over Neithan's face.

"You have become overly excited." Ghân cast a sideways glance towards the village, wondering if he should alert the men. "The healers of my people will soon make you better again."

"No, Ghân, I know you are well meaning, but you do not understand." He pushed the old Drûg aside and walked by him. "She wants me to follow her, and neither you nor any other man can prevent it! Not even the ones who dwell in the City of the Dead could stop me!"

"I will not let you go in your condition!" The Drûg rushed forward and gripped both Neithan's arms tightly. Though he was advanced in years, Ghân was as strong and muscular as a young wrestler. The two men struggled, grappling with one another, until Neithan's strong right fist plowed into Ghân's chin, knocking the Drûg sprawling on the ground. 

"Neithan! Come back!" Ghân shouted after him, but Neithan, a crazed look burning in his eyes, fled upon his long legs into the forest. Bringing two fingers to his lips, Ghân emitted a shrill whistle to summon his men to him.

Running swiftly, Neithan was soon at the outskirts of the settlement, not pausing in his flight until he came to a statue of a Drûg squatting above a fallen orc. He cursed as he unsheathed his sword and raised the blade to lash out at the orc. Then the sound of pursuit startled him and he rushed away into the trees.

***

Neithan the Accursed and Mad, they called him, a man cast out by his own people. A wanderer and a vagabond, he would remain for a time in a place until the demons in his mind would turn him into a raving, babbling, frothing madman. Then people would fear him, calling him a lunatic or one possessed by devils. Driven from their villages, he would wander back into the wilderness, where sometimes he would go for months at a time before another fit overtook him. When in the midst of one of these spells of madness, he would laugh wildly, sometimes even striking trees with his fists until his hands were masses of bloody flesh, or slashing savagely out at the air with his sword. Finally he would wear himself out and sink onto the ground in a stupor. Then, upon awakening, his mind would often come back to him. In these moments of lucidity, he would remember much of what had befallen him, even knowing his true name and the man that he had once been.

At one time, he had been betrothed to Lhûnwen; he was certain of that. She had been the daughter of a widower, a crippled pensioner, honorably discharged from the Army of Gondor. Neithan had been... Who had he been? Sometimes he could not remember... and why was it even important that he should? He knew only who he was now, Neithan the accursed. But he could be many things, depending on how he chose to see himself at any one time.

He halted in his flight and listened for the sound of pursuit, but he could hear no pounding feet behind him. The forest was silent in the false light before dawn. He was cognizant that he was being hunted, but he was unsure of the identity of his foe. Were the Dark Fiends on his trail once more, determined to drag him back to the whips, chains and stocks of that deep underground dungeon? His muddled thoughts struggled to piece together the happenings of the night before. Had he drunk too much, as he often did when sanity became too much for him to bear? No! He was sure that he had not become intoxicated. He searched his mind for the answer, but he could remember nothing. He was certain only that he had eluded his pursuers once again... whoever they were.

Resting against a great pine, he sensed Lhûnwen's presence wrapping itself around him, the cool, silky light of her aura illuminating the glade. As he closed his eyes, he felt the wispy, ethereal touch of Lhûnwen's lips upon his own. "My lady," he murmured over and over again, his hand stroking her face while her body coalesced around him. "I beseech you to tarry with me a while before you depart once again." Her arms reached up to twine about his neck, and he heard her merry laughter in the soft murmuring of the wind.

"Lady mine," he breathed heavily as his fingers stroked the pine bark, "when we are wed..." The lady laughed again and looked over his shoulder at something that she saw there. Sensing danger behind him, Neithan pushed the woman against the tree trunk and rounded upon the intruder. "Hallas, you bastard! You dare come back? Must I kill you again?" Enraged, Neithan drew his sword from its scabbard, the vaporous light about him glimmering off the blade.

Yet the phantom only mocked him with his frosty laughter and refused to answer his challenge. "Fool!" came the cold, condemning words of the spectre. "You are too much of a coward to face a man in honorable combat!" The wraith pointed to the gushing fountain of blood which spewed from the gaping hole in his neck. As Neithan gazed on in rage, Lhûnwen floated like a sultry summer breeze to the phantom's side, her head tilting to kiss the hideous wound. Her dainty pink tongue licked over the pulsing flow of crimson and probed inside the ghastly rend. One hand on her breast, the other hand rubbing over his bulging crotch, Hallas moaned in pleasure as her mouth made love to his death wound. As her hands tenderly caressed Hallas' face, her half-closed eyes gave Neithan a sideways glance, both tempting him with promises of long denied pleasures and mocking him with laughing scorn and derision.

With a scream of maddened rage, Neithan lunged at them, swinging his sword wildly in a wide arc, cutting through their ghostly bodies like the scythe cutting through ripened wheat. Their garments falling away from them in spangled slivers of silver, the forms of the two shades merged together, writhing as their beautiful bodies became one in an act of obscene carnality, laughing, taunting him with the joys that he had been denied eternally. Then the pair vanished before his eyes, retreating to the realm beyond the veil.

Dropping his sword and clasping his face in his hands, Neithan sagged against the trunk of the tree and wept. "Accursed! Accursed!" he wailed. "Just like Túrin Turambar!" Then, one by one, like droplets of water slowly falling upon a great stone, partially remembered scenes from his past spattered like drops of blood upon the edges of his mind.

***

Once he had been a man of repute, betrothed to a lady of quality, though of lower social station than his own. His prospects were high, and he had even been promised a promotion by his mentor, Captain Vorondil. All had been well for him until he had begun to suspect that Lhûnwen's love for him had grown cold and another had taken his place in her heart.

Neithan had been light-hearted that May evening when he had been released from his station on the city walls. His footsteps were hurried as he walked briskly down the quiet streets which led to the house where she lived with her father. A short distance from her house, he looked up at her open bedroom window and saw two figures illuminated by the soft glow of lamp light. His blood racing, he stood there a moment and anticipated holding Lhûnwen's soft, yielding body against him.

A smile came over his face as he heard the merry voice of Lhûnwen's maid, Díneneth. A moment later, her high-pitched giggles were joined by the deeper, throaty laughter of Lhûnwen. When he was alone with Lhûnwen in her chamber, he would ask what the two women had found so humorous.

Walking to the door, he glanced at the familiar bronze eagle which embellished the heavy door-knocker, and then raising it, he rapped upon the door. His attention was drawn away momentarily by the sound of the town crier, who called out the hour of seven o'clock. He hummed an old melody as he waited for the maid to answer the door. "What is detaining that giddy maid?" he asked himself as he restlessly drummed his boot upon the cobblestone.

Finally Díneneth arrived at the door, her hair slightly disarrayed and a rosy flush upon her face. "Sir," she apologized as she smoothed a few straying tendrils back from her temples, "the mistress sends her regrets but she cannot see you tonight. She is quite unwell." Seeming in a hurry, the usually talkative and flirtatious Dínenath began to close the door in his face.

"A moment." Suddenly suspicious, Neithan halted her as he slid his boot between the door and the doorpost. "Surely, I could see her for a short while." 

"Really, sir, I need to be going back to her," the flustered maid replied. Crossing his arms over his chest, Neithan would not budge. His cold gray eyes were unwavering as he stared at her until the maid dropped her gaze in consternation. "To tell you the truth, the lady is far too embarrassed to see you. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose is stuffy and swollen, and she looks a terrible fright!" Díneneth lowered her voice conspiratorially, as though she were sharing a forbidden confidence. "Do not tell her that I said that, though!"

"Strange," Neithan thought to himself. The lady had seemed to be in the bloom of health when he espied her through her window. Obviously the maid was lying, but why? "This illness has come upon her suddenly, has it not? Two days ago when I saw her, she seemed as strong as a young mare."

"Rather quickly, yes, sir," a fidgeting Díneneth replied, but she finally brought her eyes up to meet his. "The illness took Lhûnwen suddenly. When she awoke this morning, I would have sworn she was in the peak of health. I was quite beside myself when, before the day was half over, she became faint and complained that she felt quite weak, chilling and aching. She soon took to her bed and has not ventured forth since. She has taken nothing into her stomach save for a bit of weak tea and some toast without even a spot of jam! I am sorely distressed for her sake! I can take a message to her, sir, if you should wish. That would be something that would cheer her, I am sure. Now, sir, if you would please remove your foot from the doorway, you could be on your way, and I could finish brewing a pot of tea for the lady."

Deciding to play the fool for the time and wait until this farce had played itself out, Neithan instructed her, "Take this message to the lady Lhûnwen. Tell her that I am most certainly concerned for her well-being, and I pray that she might improve quickly. Impress upon her that every hour I am parted from her is naught but emptiness, but above all things tell her that I love her."

"Why, certainly, sir. I will assuredly give her that message, and I am very glad to do it. Now you understand that I must be going. A good evening to you, sir, and perhaps when you return tomorrow, she will be her old self again. I certainly hope so!" Díneneth closed the door just as soon as he had removed his foot.

Puzzled, Neithan could make no sense of the events of the evening. Since he had planned to spend the evening with his lady, he did not quite know what to do with himself, so he stood for a moment, studying the eagle door-knocker. Then he turned back to the street and walked a few paces. At a distance from the house, he looked back at Lhûnwen's window, but this time he found that it had been heavily draped, and all he could see was a faint glow filtering through the material. Dejected, he found his feet leading him to a tavern that was a favorite haunt of many soldiers in their off duty hours.

As he walked into the public room, all eyes turned to him in curiosity. When recognition lighted their faces, Neithan was invited to sit at a table with two of his comrades who had just blown the froth off their tankards of ale. 

"Did not expect to see you tonight, Neithan," remarked Garthon, a plain looking, dark-haired man who wore the livery of the city guards. 

"Neithan, good fellow, we were expecting you to spend the evening with your betrothed. Have you two had a spat?" queried Orchal, a large, ruddy-faced man who was as fond of a night of drinking as he was a night with the tavern whores.

"Something like that," Neithan replied noncommittally.

"Well, you need a draught then to make you forget your sorrows. I will buy for all," promised Orchal, who, with a raise of his hand, summoned a tavern wench.

Bearing a tray of tankards, the wench set them down on the table. As she served Neithan his ale, she bent over, giving him a view of twin mounds, barely covered by her low neckline. Running a finger over the rim of her bodice, he elicited a giggle out of the girl, which set her bosom to jiggling as he pressed a coin down the valley of her huge breasts.

"Oh, Master Neithan," the maid tittered, "so good to have you with us tonight, sir! Will you be wanting anything more?" She winked provocatively.

"Come back later, sweets. I might develop a thirst for something else."

"Certainly, sir. Should you have need of anything..."

"We will see, lass." As she moved away from the table, her massive haunches pushed against the thin material of her skirt, each ponderous globe alternating as it rose and fell with her steps. She squealed as Neithan slapped her broad rump.

"Neithan, you rogue! Has not even your betrothal cooled the gleam in your eye and the itch between your legs?" Garthon asked.

"Love has made a different man of me, Garthon. All my thoughts rest with my beloved, and never do my eyes wander, straying places where they should not."

"You did not mention your hands," jibed Orchal.

The other two men laughed and attended to their tankards as Neithan scowled at them before sampling his ale. "Not to change the subject, of course," Neithan put in nonchalantly, "but where is Hallas tonight? I know he is off-duty, but he is not among this illustrious company I see about me in the tavern."

"A question I cannot answer," replied an unconcerned Garthon, "but I know he has not been about tonight."

"Strange," murmured Neithan. "There must have been something very important to keep old Hallas away from his draught, and that can be but one thing - a woman. Has the scoundrel found himself some fair charmer whom he has not told me about?"

"Well, he did say something about an appointment that he had to keep tonight. Considering the way he was acting - all broad smiles and laughter - I took it that he was meeting some delicate morsel who has caught his eye." Setting down his tankard, Garthon belched loudly and signaled a passing serving maid to set up another round.

"Well, knowing him, you can place good money on it that whoever she is, she will be lifting her skirts and showing him her pretty tail before the sun breaks the horizon!"

With that remark from Orchal, the three men went back to their drinking. They continued as the night progressed, until they were well into their cups. As the bells chimed the hour of one o'clock, Hallas drew open the tavern door and walked into the public room. The three friends at Neithan's table had just finished the chorus of a popular bawdy song when they espied their comrade.

"Hail, Sergeant Hallas, you old rascal! Out and about rather late, are you not?" remarked Garthon as he motioned him to sit down at their table.

"By the Enemy's belching buttocks, you look as though you could use a stiff drink! From what winsome hole have you pulled yourself tonight?" laughed Orchal.

Pulling out a chair across the table from Neithan, Hallas sat down and waited until the serving girl came by with a full tray of tankards. "Why would you think that, Orchal? Perhaps I was at my house resting," he replied innocently.

"Resting?" Orchal snorted derisively "You have the look and smell about you of a man who has not been resting, but has just come out of a warm bed after enjoying a bit of horizontal sport. Who was she? What husband have you been cuckolding?"

"Aye, who was it, Hallas? You can tell your friends, can you not?" Neithan probed good-naturedly as he gazed at Hallas.

"I do not like to boast. That is all I am saying, so ask me no more of it." Lifting up his tankard, Hallas could not meet Neithan's eyes and turned his head away.

"Oh, keeping it a secret, are you, Sergeant?" Garthon, not wanting to miss out on the fun, pressed eagerly.

"I said I would speak naught of it, so leave me be," Hallas replied gruffly and then tossed down another mouthful of ale.

"Keep your secrets then," chuckled Orchal. "We will ask no more of it. Let the lady, whoever she might be, keep her pristine reputation, but your reticence will leave us wondering."

Neithan had already been wondering, for Hallas was known to be a man who always liked to boast of his conquests. It was unlike him to remain so close-mouthed unless he had a very good reason... perhaps he did. Though Hallas had always been the epitome of a well-bred gentleman when he was with Neithan and Lhûnwen, several times Neithan had caught the two gazing longingly into each other's eyes. Díneneth the maid had been acting most strangely that night, too. What had she been trying to hide? Neithan did not like to think such thoughts, but his suspicions had been aroused.

Could his fellow officer and the lady of his heart be cheating on him? They would bear watching. Neithan resolved to discover the truth of it.

A thousand questions filled his mind, but he asked none of them. Instead, Neithan rose to his feet, and after thanking Orchal for his generosity, he bid the three men a good night and retreated from the tavern.


	25. Hunger of the Heart

Chapter Written by Angmar

Convinced that Lhûnwen had betrayed his heart, Neithan was in a black mood when he left the tavern and headed for his lodgings. He rented a room from the boarding house of Rûdon the cobbler and his wife Meldis, where the accommodations were modest but neat and clean. The rent was cheap enough, since it was an attic room, and the other boarders of the house, more well-to-do than either Neithan or Ivaranon, preferred the larger rooms on lower floors.

Opening the door to the small, sparsely furnished room, Neithan heard the familiar loud snorts and snores of Ivaranon, the saddle-maker, who shared the room with him. The chamber lay in darkness, the gloom broken only by a thin shaft of light that fell through the one window in the room. A tall, narrow opening, the window had been left open to allow air to flow into the stuffy chamber. After walking over to the table, Neithan lit a small oil lamp and looked about the tiny room for something to drown his sorrows. He spied a bottle of cheap wine on the stool beside Ivaranon's cot and took it back to the table, where he filled an earthenware cup with the tart liquid. A loose floorboard creaked under Neithan's weight, and Ivaranon stirred in his sleep. Snorting and coughing up phlegm, the man rallied up and looked around.

"Neithan, is that you?" he mumbled.

"Certainly it is... who else did you think it might be?" Neithan was in no mood to talk, and hoped that Ivaranon would not tax him with too many questions. "Go back to sleep."

"Home rather late, are you not?" Throwing back his head, Ivaranon yawned widely, showing his teeth, which were large and yellow, much like those of a horse. Hearing no reply from Neithan, Ivaranon rolled over on his side, asleep and snoring again almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Cursing himself for not having any ale, Neithan mulled over his cup and stared at the flickering light cast by the lamp. Unfortunately, the wine did not sit well with the ale that already churned in his stomach. Neithan belched prodigiously, rose to his feet and went to the window. Calling down a warning to passersby in the street, he gripped the sill and poured the contents of his roiling stomach onto the cobblestones below.

"Damn, I feel like I was trampled by a herd of mûmakil," he groaned as another sudden surge of bile spewed out of his mouth. He retched until he had emptied the contents of his stomach and then went to the small table along the wall. His hands shook as he lifted the pitcher of water and half filled the basin. After washing his face and rising his mouth, he filled his cup with the tepid water and returned to the table.

The sense that he had been betrayed was like an icy dagger through Neithan's gut. "The unfaithful wench!" He felt like smashing his fist into the wall as he tortured his mind with images of a nude Lhûnwen lying with thighs sprawled wide as she whimpered and groaned under the bulk of Hallas' writhing body. Perhaps Hallas had rutted with Lhûnwen that very evening when Neithan had overheard the musical peals of feminine laughter coming from her chamber. Neithan could not bear the thought of another man's using her body as he had never been allowed to do. 

But what real proof did he have of her perfidy? Perhaps Lhûnwen had actually been ill that afternoon, and she was only laughing because her maid had made some innocent joke to cheer her up. Perhaps Hallas was never at the lady's house at all, but with some married woman. Possibly Hallas' new lady love was a married lady and he wished to protect both his neck and her reputation. Perhaps... perhaps... perhaps! 

Neithan pushed back his stool and began to pace about the room. No, his suspicions were not wrong! There was only one explanation for the incriminating behavior of Lhûnwen and Hallas. Lhûnwen was obviously cheating on him, and she had persuaded Díneneth to lie for her. Neithan had always heard that the maid had loose morals. Perhaps she was even a participant in a debauched orgy, and it had been the three of them together in Lhûnwen's bed. "How long has this been going on behind my back?" Neithan wondered bitterly as he renounced Lhûnwen over and over in his mind. "How could I have been such a fool?"

Arriving late the next morning at the breakfast table, he found the dining room deserted, except for Ivaranon. The beefy man was at work on his second bowl of oat gruel mixed with milk, sweetened with a dab of honey. Breaking off a chunk of the freshly baked bread, the man dipped it into his bowl and cleaned out the last remnants. Ivaranon beamed broadly as the lady of the house brought in a platter of leftover chicken and set it on the table. Spearing the meat with his eating knife, Ivaranon put the piece in his mouth and then pointed at Neithan with the blade.

"Something wrong with your appetite this morning? I do not see how you can turn down all this good food."

"I did not sleep too well last night. Eat my share," Neithan remarked as he pushed his cold bowl of gruel across the table to the other man and then rose to his feet.

"So much the more for me," replied Ivaranon with a jolly laugh, his open mouth filled with bits of chicken. "I am still growing!" He tapped his broad stomach proudly and winked at the landlady.

"I feed my guests well," the good dame smiled as she bobbed her head up and down in agreement with herself. "The master always says so, do you not, dear?" Meldis looked to Rûdhon, who appeared pale and queasy that morning.

"Aye, you have been cooking for our boarders and me well onto forty years now, and have done an admirable job of it, I always thought," Rûdhon replied as he stirred more milk into his gruel.

As Neithan walked out the kitchen door, Ivaranon looked to the mistress of the house. "Wonder what is going on with him?"

"He has the marks of a young man in the throes of love, that he does," the elderly lady replied knowingly.

"From the way he clomped across the floor above us last night, keeping me up until all hours," Rûdhon added sourly, "I would say it was a love that had gone bad, like milk turns rancid after so long a time."

"Oh, I hope not, my dear! The sergeant is such a nice young man."

"Do you have any more of this fine, tender chicken, mistress?" Ivaranon asked hopefully as he looked glumly at his empty plate.

"No, but I have half of a pie left from last night, and since my darling husband is bothered with dyspepsia this morning and the sergeant has gone, you may have the whole thing." Meldis smiled benevolently.

"Thank you, mistress! As you know, it takes a lot to keep a growing boy going," exclaimed Ivaranon as he affectionately patted his rotund stomach once again and beamed at Meldis.

***

That evening when his watch was over, Neithan went back to his apartment. Passing Ivaranon on the stairs, he gave the man a terse nod. The large, brawny man halted and, turning his head, he looked up at Neithan, who had gained the landing. 

"Say, old fellow, did you hear that some of our illustrious cavalrymen were planning a race outside the city walls this evening? It was all very spur of the moment, and little notice of it has gone about the city. I only learned of it when I delivered a new saddle to the home of a rich patron this afternoon. The head groom, a fine fellow - who, by the way, has been a friend of mine for years - is placing wagers on the outcome of the race. After my recent losses, I have almost sworn off the habit. Might you be interested in the opportunity to win a little coin?"

Neithan shook his head, impatient to change out of his uniform and be on his way.

"Well, in any event, I was very pleased with the profit I made off the sale of the saddle and was in quite an expansive mood," the jowly, porcine man beamed happily. "In celebration, I purchased two bottles of the best Dorwinion wine. For quite a modest sum, Mistress Meldis has promised to pack a basket with a fine supper consisting of two capons, fresh bread, an ample quantity of hard boiled eggs, sharp cheddar cheese, jellies, jams, a variety of condiments, a half-dozen strawberry tarts made from fresh picked berries, and even a skin of soured milk. Quite a fine spread, I would say." He stared dreamy eyed into space as he thought of the magnificent feast. "I would be most happy to share this abundant meal. You know my friend the cooper, whose shop is right next to mine? Why, of course you do! You have seen him oft enough. Well, anyway. He is fond of both racing and good dining, and I have invited him to go with me. There is plenty of food to share. Would you like to go with us?" Ivaranon offered pleasantly.

Neithan leaned over the landing rail. "Unfortunately, I have previous plans, but I thank you for your considerate offer."

Under other circumstances, Neithan would have eagerly accepted the saddler's kind offer, for the two men had long been good friends. Neithan had always felt sorry for the fellow, for while Ivaranon was amiable, good natured, and kindness itself, his great bulk made him backward and shy, and he was hesitant to risk his heart by courting a lady.

"If you should change your mind later, you know where to find me." The large man smiled kindly as Neithan passed out of sight up the stairs. "The unfortunate fellow," Ivaranon thought. "He has allowed love to get the better of him!"

***

Neithan made his way over the familiar streets to Lhûnwen's house as he had done so many times before. This time, though, he halted in the shadows of a house across the street. There, he waited for a while, keeping out of sight and listening. The house was dark, and as he gazed at her upstairs window, he found that the draperies had been drawn. The only illumination in the house was a lamp burning in the front parlor downstairs. The house felt empty, as though all the occupants were away.

He raised the familiar eagle head door knocker and brought it down heavily upon the metal bar behind. The sudden appearance of the maid startled him, and he stepped back.

"Oh, good evening to you, sir!" Díneneth exclaimed as she looked at her lady's betrothed. "I was expecting you, and tonight I have good news! The lady is much improved, and I know that will be sure to cheer you. She is almost her old self again." Díneneth smiled.

Perhaps he had been wrong about Lhûnwen, and her virtue and integrity were as unquestioned as they had always been. How could he have entertained any doubts that she could ever be unfaithful to him? They had known each other for over a year, and she was still as innocent and untouched as she had been the day he met her. Although in his ardor, he had sometimes pressed her to give into his desires, she had always refused him, pleading that it would be so much better if they waited until they were married. Although his disappointment had been intense, he had respected her chastity.

"Then I can see her tonight?" The relief was apparent in Neithan's deep voice. 

"Well, sir, you must understand that will not be possible," the maid told him apologetically. "Her father received word only this afternoon that his brother had taken ill, and the two of them went to visit him. Since the brother lives some distance away from Minas Tirith, I fear they will not return until tomorrow." Díneneth's bland face was open and honest, and her gaze never ceased to meet his.

"They should have sent word to me, and I would have rented a horse at the livery and gone with them," Neithan replied, his voice edged with disappointment.

"Oh, no, sir," Díneneth wrung her hands, "there was not enough time. All this happened quite suddenly, you see, and you would have been at your post anyway. Now if you will not be needing me for anything, I should be bidding you a good night, as I have a most dreadful headache. It has bothered me all today, and I would like to go to my bed early."

Although the maid had given him a story which seemed quite plausible, Neithan was reluctant to go. "So you say the lady's uncle is sick?" he asked, studying her face for any hint of deception.

"Aye, that is what I said, sir. Perhaps you did not hear me, but he is terribly sick with a fever. I think it is the quinsy," Díneneth answered, shaking her head.

"Ah, I see." He continued staring at her. Every hair was in place and her manner unruffled, quite the opposite from what she had been the night before. Neithan noticed, however, some things that were considerably different from her usual drab appearance. Her eyes had been accentuated with a trace of kohl, her cheeks had more rouge than she commonly wore, and her lips had been painted a bright cherry red. About her person was the overpowering scent of cheap perfume - lilac, he guessed - and around her neck hung a tiny pearl necklace, its inexpensive chain forged from links of tin wire.

From all indications, Díneneth must have a lover who was paying for the privilege of lifting up her skirts. The man was probably one of the laboring class who could only purchase gifts from the poorer quality shops of the city. Neithan wondered idly if he knew the man. The maid fidgeted uncomfortably, and he realized that he had been staring at her for far too long.

"Sir, did you hear me?" She cocked an eyebrow. "I really need to be going to my bed."

"Certainly, I heard you," Neithan responded brusquely. "Tell your mistress when she returns that Neithan was here."

"That is your only message, sir?" she asked quizzically, cocking her head.

"Aye. Now good evening to you, Díneneth." Neithan turned and quickly left her, his mind in an even worse turmoil than when he had first arrived. There was no point in returning to his lodgings yet, for though he was exhausted, he knew that sleep would be long in coming to him. He wandered the streets of Minas Tirith, and as the town crier called out the hour of two o'clock, he looked up at the White Tower and saw a light burning in the topmost chamber. Suddenly, the light flickered, growing brighter, and then dimmed to nothingness.

"Someone else must not be able to sleep either," Neithan mused. "I wonder who it could be? Surely not the Steward. Prudent men usually retire much earlier than this... unless they have good reason to be awake. Perhaps the rumors are true, and Denethor does indeed fight his own battles with the Great Enemy."

Matters like this were far too deep for a common soldier, and so Neithan turned his back on the White Tower. Returning to a lower level of the city, he made his way to the shop of a seller of strong spirits who kept late hours. When Neithan returned to his lodgings later that night, his steps were stumbling, but at least his heart was merry for a change.

***  
NOTES

"'It was in the very hour that Faramir was brought to the Tower that many of us saw a strange light in the topmost chamber,' said Beregond. 'But we have seen that light before, and it has long been rumored in the City that the Lord would at times wrestle in thought with his enemy.'" - The Pyre of Denethor, The Return of the King, p. 133


	26. The Jealous Lover

Chapter Written by Angmar

After Neithan had finished his guard duty the next afternoon, he turned his feet towards his lodgings. Arriving at the boarding house, he hurried down the hallway by the kitchen, but could not escape the keen eyes of the mistress of the house. "Sergeant," her welcoming voice halted him at the doorway of the kitchen, "supper will be served within the hour. As chance would have it, upon the menu tonight is your favorite dish, beef and carrots served with small onions cooked in cream sauce. I was fortunate enough to obtain some freshly churned butter from a vendor's wagon this afternoon, and with my fresh bread - of which I am quite proud - you should be well pleased. Shall I lay a place for you at the table, Sergeant?"

"Nay, Mistress, I am in a bit of a rush right now. Set some food aside for me, though, and I will eat it cold upon my return. Now if you should excuse me, I will be going to my quarters."

"Sergeant, please wait," she exhorted him as she followed him into the hall.

"What is it?" He paused and turned to her.

"Sergeant, you have boarded here for the past two years, and both my husband and I feel we know you quite well by this time. He and I have been talking, and we have both concluded that you seem worried about something. You have confided in us in the past, and I just wanted to say that you should feel free to do so now if something is bothering you." The elderly woman gave him an encouraging smile as she clasped her hands before her.

"Mistress, nay, thank you for your concern, but my problems are my own. Now I do not mean to be discourteous, but I would like to change my clothing before I go out," he replied coolly.

"Certainly, sir. I understand, but we thought we should offer to help you if we could," Meldis murmured regretfully.

"Your concern is appreciated, Mistress," he replied quickly and turned and fled towards the stairway.

After bathing his face, neck and hands in a basin of water and putting on fresh clothing, down to the hose upon his legs, he planned to go to Lhûnwen's house and find out the truth. Leaving the boarding house, he strode rapidly down the main thoroughfare of this level of the city until he came to a poorer section. Taking a shortcut down an alley and then up a side street, he saw ahead of him an open doorway.

As he approached, a large, buxom matron pushed a young girl through the entryway and into the street. The girl's eyes were filled with fear as she glanced over her shoulder at the closing door. When she turned towards him, he saw a tender young bud with a face that was pure innocence, her pale skin lily white and almost translucent. A timorous sigh escaped her lips and she held her hands to her breast as though she were stilling the rapid pace of her heart. When she finally spoke, her manner was more settled and her gentle, melodious voice was as soft as the cooing of the turtle-dove.

"Sir, if you should have time to tarry for a while with an humble girl, I - I invite you to come inside." Deep-set and dark, embellished with kohl, the pupils enlarged with belladonna, her eyes had difficulty meeting his cool gray ones as she flushed shyly. Her sheer, diaphanous blue gown did little to conceal a willowy body that he judged had only recently reached womanhood.

"I could show you some of my... charms... if you should like, sir," she whispered haltingly as her trembling fingers raised up the hem of her gown, displaying a trim set of ankles and graceful calves. Her eyelashes fluttering softly, she let the skirt drift slowly back to her shoes. "When you go to my room, I will let you see the rest of me. I am not expensive, and you can have my - my favors by the hour for a silver coin, or by the night for four silvers."

Walking closer, Neithan took her chin between his hands and looked into her eyes. "I see you have been instructed well in how to play the part of the sweet young innocent so recently stripped of her virginity by some cruel man who exploited you and then betrayed you. Given all that, you are a pretty piece of baggage - at least from what I can see of your outward appearance. How do I know, though, that your intimate parts are not eaten up with the pox? I am careful where I dip my wick."

"Oh, no, sir, I assure you that I am clean and do not have the canker from the East! You are quite safe in my bed," she reassured him as she stretched forth a dainty white hand and boldly curled her fingers over the outline of his manhood. Catching the scowl of disapproval on his face, she pulled her hand back as though she had touched a hot iron. "My lord, I did not mean to be presumptuous, but you are quite a handsome man and well favored in your manly parts."

"And you are the usual flattering, lying little tart," Neithan laughed cynically. "Like your kind, all you want is my money. The only difference I can detect between you and your sisters in the trade is that you are younger than most of them and so must not have been long at your profession."

"While it is true that I am young, I have much experience, sir, and have been well trained in the arts of love, even being instructed in the erotic love arts of the distant East. There are many ways to please a man in bed, and I know most of them. Come inside with me, and I will make you forget your cares." Hesitantly, she laid her hand on his arm.

"You little harlot, you should be in the public gaol for soliciting openly," Neithan chuckled, amused by the girl.

"Oh, please, sir, do not report me to the guards! I will leave you be and not bother you longer!" The girl looked up at him with eyes close to tears as he continued to hold her face in his hands. "Now please let me go!"

"Not so quickly, wench. While I do not usually find it necessary to lie with trollops, you are a charming little piece, and I would enjoy a tumble with you had I not more important affairs to which to attend." 

She looked up at him, relief showing on her pretty face. "Then you do not take offense?"

"Nay, no offense taken. Harlots like you have plied their trade since time began. They serve a purpose, for men have needs which only a wench can satisfy. I am curious about you, though. I will not ask you your age, but you look hardly more than a child! Why do you earn your living in this degrading and sordid manner? Do you out of willingness or out of necessity?"

"What would it matter, sir, to a man like yourself?" she replied bitterly. "You would say it was the same story as that which you have no doubt heard many times before. My parents were poor and illiterate, and my father sold my sister and me when she was little more than eight and I was only nine to a procuress to help finance his addiction to the Eastern poppy. You can be sure, sir, that I did not choose to do this! But now there is nothing left for me to do, for decent folks would not have me."

"I want nothing from you, girl." He reached into the pouch into his belt and drew out a coin. Taking one of her hands in his, he placed the metal disk in her palm and brought the fingers closed about it.

"Are you sure, sir? I will not forget your kindness!" she exclaimed as she drew his other hand up to her lips and kissed it adoringly.

"This is for you, so keep it secret and do not give it to the brothel keeper. This is one coin you earned honestly and not while on the flat of your back." He stepped away from her.

"She will never know about it, sir," she replied emphatically. "You saw the despicable old harridan when she pushed me out into the street to solicit. Thank you, thank you for the coin! And should you ever be sad and lonely, and in need of comfort, my name is Mírgalen."

As he felt the pangs of passion heating up his loins, Neithan admitted to himself that the girl was having an effect upon him. Even though he felt pity and compassion for this tender young waif, the ache between his legs told him that he wanted the sweet prostitute. But was she really so innocent, or was she only playing the part? What was real anymore? Did it really even matter?

With a low, deep growl in his throat, he pulled Mírgalen in his arms and drove his lips down upon hers in a fierce kiss. Wild surges of emotion were pouring through his mind, and he felt the animal urge to pull her down on the pavement and have her right in the alley. "No, no," he told himself, "it would be pure madness to rut with her like an animal in the street! It only makes sense to go with her inside the brothel."

There was still plenty of time to satisfy his lusts upon this girl before he went to see Lhûnwen. How would she ever know? Perhaps out of spite, he would lie with the girl. Two could play at the game of deceit as easily as one, and Lhûnwen should pay for the pain that she had caused him! No, no! This was wrong! He was not thinking clearly. He had allowed his mind to rage out of control as he held this gentle, willing girl. To do such a thing was beneath his dignity, and he must put the dishonorable thought out of his mind. His eyes smoldering with the dark fires of lust, he held her gaze as he stroked her soft cheek with the back of his hand.

"Farewell, Mírgalen," he whispered softly.

He turned quickly on his heel and left her standing alone in the street. As she looked at his retreating form, she brushed away a tear from her eye with the back of her hand and turned the kohl on her eyes into a sooty smudge.

"Goodbye, sir," she called after him.

***

Neithan quickly left the alleyway where he had found the girl, his rapid pace almost a run. Lhûnwen! What a farce she was! She was far lower than the little bawd, for she, the lady of respectable birth and breeding, willingly played the part of the whore, while Mírgalen had been forced into a life of degradation by circumstance and fate. As he came to a corner, Neithan passed the town crier, who scarcely noticed him as he went about his tasks of calling out the time. Neithan would remember later that the hour was nine o'clock.

His hand was a tight clenched fist as he brought it up to the eagle door-knocker. The urge to pound upon the oak door or break it in with a pounding thrust of his shoulder was strong in his mind. Instead, like a reasonable man, he took a deep breath to steady his nerves and, unclenching his fingers, he rapped politely upon the door.

"Oh, sir," Díneneth greeted him, her eyes reddened, her lower lip trembling slightly, "it is bad news that I bring you tonight! My lady's trip yesterday proved far too much for her frail constitution. This morning when she and her father returned, the lady was so weak and faint that she swooned as she walked into the house! If it had not been for Balharn, the boy whom the master keeps to tend to his horses and do the other outside work, I swear I do not know what we would have done! As it was, it was all the youth and I could do to get her upstairs to her room. Sir, if that were not enough, her poor father - you know he is constantly ailing and so worried about his poor brother and all - was so upset that he took to his bed shortly afterwards, and has not been up since." Pausing to catch her breath after her rapid torrent of words, Díneneth looked at Neithan for sympathy.

"I want to see her," Neithan hissed from between clenched teeth, each word as quiet as a drop of acid falling through still air.

"Oh, sir, I am afraid that will be quite impossible!" A look of incredulous amazement upon her face, Díneneth clutched at her heart. "The lady has scarcely stirred all day and can hold nothing in her stomach! She is too weak to have company!"

"I am not exactly company," Neithan growled, his words edged with dire warning. "She and I are to be wed in the autumn. Now move aside, Díneneth!"

"Why, sir, what has come over you?" the maid gasped in alarm as she stepped backward into the room. "I have never seen you like this before! Are you well, sir?"

"I have never been more well in my life!" he laughed.

"But you cannot--"

Despite the maid's loud protests, Neithan rushed by her and took the steps two at a time. Reaching the second floor hallway, he moved quickly to Lhûnwen's room. Jerking the door open, he found Lhûnwen lying in her bed, her eyes closed as though in sleep, her chest rapidly rising and falling beneath the coverlet that was drawn up to her neck. At the window beside her bed, the drapery fluttered gently, as though a breeze had stirred it... or someone had just made a hasty exit out the window. Hearing footsteps behind him, Neithan turned and frowned as he saw the maid, who was breathing hard after her rapid ascent up the stairs.

"Oh, sir, you should not have come up here!" Díneneth uttered mournfully. "You should have let the lady rest undisturbed!"

"Neithan," came the soft sigh of Lhûnwen's voice as she slowly sat up in the bed, pushing her tangled, disheveled hair away from her face, "oh, my love, you should not have come here! I would not have had you see me like this!"

Neithan thought that her deep gray eyes - which were dilated from sleep, or perhaps pleasure - looked as guilty as a traitor. Her face was flushed as though she were ill... or perhaps just recently caught in the throes of passion.

"Who was here, Lhûnwen?" His voice was a snarl. "I know someone was!"

"What are you talking about?" she exclaimed shrilly.

"The drape at the window, my sweet... obviously your lover made his escape before I could catch the two of you in the act!"

"No, you are imagining things! I have no lover, save you!"

"That is where you are lying!" he shouted, his voice booming off the walls of the small room. "You have lied all along!"

"Oh, no, sir! Please believe me!" came Díneneth's pleading voice behind him. "She has never once lied to you!"

When Neithan turned to the maid, his eyes were dark slits of fury, and Díneneth drew back in fear.

"Leave this room, you whining strumpet! Did he have you, too, on the other nights? All of you must think I am a total fool! You with your stinking cheap perfume and Lhûnwen with her wantonness should be walking the streets, since your true talents lie in spreading your legs for any man! Díneneth, you have always tried to throw yourself at me! Is that what you did with him? I know you have always wanted me to sink my love tool into your sheath! You little whore! You are hot for any man... just like my betrothed!" When he raised his hand to strike Díneneth, the maid screamed and fled the room in terror.

"Oh, my heart!" Lhûnwen cried. "Are you drunk upon wine? I cannot believe the things you are saying about Díneneth and me!"

"Tell me the name of the man, Lhûnwen! Tell me his name so that I may kill him!"

"There was no one, Neithan," she sobbed, trembling under the cover. "Oh, my beloved! What has come over you?"

Tearing the sheet away from her, Neithan stared down at her naked body as she shrieked and futilely grabbed for the blanket. "You filthy harlot! You and your bed reek of the stench of fornication! Maybe I should add my seed to his!" he bellowed as he gripped her arms and dragged her from the bed to face him. His hands held her roughly by the shoulders as he shook her violently. 

"No, Neithan, please!" she screamed repeatedly, her eyes wide with fear. "I have done nothing!" 

One hand tightly gripping her shoulder, the other grabbing a fistful of her hair, he pulled her face close to him and tried to force his tongue between her unyielding lips. "So ungenerous with me, Lhûnwen?" He moved his mouth away from hers and rested it against the side of her face, his beard pressing into her sensitive skin. "You gave freely to him! Why not me? Was I not good enough for you?" Moving his mouth back on hers, his teeth caught her lower lip and ground down savagely as she yelped in pain. Uncaring of her hurt, he kissed her over and over again, his tongue thrusting deeply inside her bleeding mouth. Sobbing, she ceased struggling and let her body go limp. Finally he drew away from her and slapped her across the mouth, bursting her lip and sending more blood streaming down the side of her face.

"What was his name? Was it Hallas? Tell me, Lhûnwen, or I will beat it out of you!" 

"There was no man! Surely, how could you ever think such terrible things about Hallas and me? Why can you not believe what I say?" she gasped as blood ran down her throat and she choked upon the salty liquid.

"Because you are a liar, Lhûnwen! You have always lied to me!" He slapped her across the nose with such force that it caused a gush of crimson to spurt out her nostrils. "I warned you, Lhûnwen! Damn it, I warned you!"

"You have gone mad, Neithan!"

"Perhaps, but you have driven me to it!" He grabbed her shoulders again and shook her until her head rocked back and forth on her neck.

A door slammed somewhere down below and they heard Díneneth's terrified voice crying, "They are up there! Please help my lady before he kills her! He has gone mad!" Gruff voices of assurance soothed her frantic pleas as heavy boots rushed up the stairs. 

"Damn, the guards! One last kiss, my love, before I find that bastard and kill him!" Snarling as his mouth bore down on hers, he then threw her to the floor to lie there sobbing as he made his flight out the open window.


	27. Crimes of Passion

Chapter Written by Angmar

Dropping to the pavement, Neithan bent his knees to cushion the shock of his landing, but still when his feet hit the cobblestones, the jarring impact made him wince. He looked up at the window as a man stuck out his head and demanded, "Halt in the name of the Steward and the City!"

Turning, Neithan gave slightly to his right ankle as he hurried down the street, not stopping until he had reached his rented room. There, he found Ivarannon still awake, sitting up on his cot and reading a leather-bound book by the light of an oil lamp.

"You are up late tonight, Ivarannon," Neithan muttered between tight lips. He hurried about the room, gathering up his possessions and stuffing them into a sack.

"Aye, Neithan, I could not sleep. A most disconcerting premonition came upon me and ever since, I have been greatly worried about you."

"Nothing is amiss," Neithan replied as he buckled his sword belt around his middle.

Ivarannon lay the book down on the bed. "Nothing amiss?" He looked at Neithan worriedly. "Something terrible has happened!"

"What makes you think that?" Neithan snapped as he took a cloak off a hook by his bed and drew it about his shoulders.

"Something is wrong! Man, do you not know? I am your friend! Do not try to keep this thing from me!" Ivarannon cried out in alarm. He had never seen Neithan behave so strangely. "Your hand! Your right hand is stained with blood! Your face, too! Have you injured yourself?" 

"Aye, Ivarannon, I did. I stumbled on the street and cut myself upon a jagged cobble." Neithan glanced down at his hand, stained red with Lhûnwen's blood. Somehow the dried blood still felt warm and sticky, imparting a soothing feeling to his skin. He looked back at Ivarannon. The man had always been far too curious, sometimes to the point of being a meddlesome nuisance. Perhaps this excuse would stave off his incessant questions. 

"Here, let me look at that!" Pushing off the cover, the large man arose from the bed and shuffled barefoot across the cold floor to where Neithan stood.

"There is nothing to see, Ivarannon." He turned fierce eyes to glare at the man. 

"I am your friend, Neithan, and I have been concerned about you for days. What is wrong?" Ivarannon gripped Neithan's arm.

"Damn it, there is nothing wrong! Now get away from me, you fool! I have to be going!" He jerked his arm from Ivarannon's grasp as the man gaped at him in surprise. With his soft, pudgy, round face and small eyes, he had always reminded Neithan of a pig. He wondered if he would squeal if he sliced open his fat stomach.

"Where are you going so late when you have scarcely been here ten minutes?" The portly man hesitated to press him, for Neithan's hostile behavior terrified him.

"Where, you ask?" Neithan laughed. "Do you not know? I am going to kill a man!"

With that, Neithan turned and fled from the room, laughing and raving incoherently like a madman. Ivarannon looked after him in shock, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened.

"The poor soul!" he thought sadly. "Love has driven him mad!"

***

Avoiding the possibility of meeting any other boarders who might be about, Neithan took the servant's stairs at the rear of the building. Closing the back door quietly behind him, he entered the alleyway used by vendors when they made their deliveries. Wondering how far ahead he was of the city guard, he then turned down a side street which led to the main road.

Attempting to appear inconspicuous, he drew the hood of his cloak over his head when he reached the main thoroughfare. Walking rapidly, he came to the guard towers which looked over the archway leading to the first level of the city and passed through unchallenged by the guards on duty. "Still safe enough," he told himself. "No cry for my capture has yet been raised." Turning westward, he was soon upon the main street of the first level, heading towards the tavern that Hallas commonly frequented. 

The tavern-keeper looked up from a journal on his desk, a quill pen poised in his fingers. "Greetings, Sergeant! Good to see you tonight. The dining room is closed at this late hour, but the public room is still open if you would care for a draught of ale. Should you be of a mind for something to eat, a pot of stew is kept simmering constantly on one of the two kitchen hearths, and there is bread and a bit of leftover pie in the pantry if you should have a liking for that." The man smiled amiably.

"It is neither draught nor food that I come here for, but rather I seek my good friend Hallas. Might I find him in the public room?" Neithan asked, his words a dull, heavy monotone.

"Terribly sorry, Sergeant," the tavern-keeper answered politely. "I believe the gentleman left just a few minutes ago."

"What?" came Neithan's sharp reply. "Has he been here all the night?"

"Why, no, sir, I do not believe so." Sensing impending trouble, the tavern-keeper chose his words carefully. "But then again, I cannot be certain. It has been a very busy night, and people come and go."

The tavern-keeper's attention was diverted when a tall man ambled into the foyer and headed for the desk. When he looked again, Neithan was gone, the sound of the slamming door reverberating behind him.

"What was that all about?" asked the tall, lean-faced, sharp-eyed man, who stared in puzzlement at the door.

"Captain Vorondil, I do not know, I simply do not know!" The tavern-keeper shook his head. "There is something quite odd about the Sergeant's behavior tonight. He seemed agitated and distracted, not himself at all. And his eyes! I do not know... there was something about them, something dark and fell!"

"I noticed that, too," Captain Vorondil confided. "I have been much concerned about the sergeant of late. Though he attends his duties faithfully, it is apparent that some matter has been constantly occupying his mind the last few days. Even though we have been friends since boyhood, he has revealed nothing to me of what might be troubling him." The captain kept his attention directed towards the door, as though he might be considering following Neithan. "Still, the sergeant has always been a man who keeps to himself and heeds his own counsel."

"Well, that is true enough, sir. I have always noticed that about the good sergeant. He is very polite and quiet... oh, yes, he can joke and all, but sometimes he seems moody, even sullen. Tonight..." he paused. "Maybe I should not say anything about it, Captain," the tavern-keeper lowered his voice, "but he came in here just now looking for Hallas, and he seemed most put out about it that the man was not here. And I noticed something..." the tavern-keeper looked around, his tone a conspiratorial one, "there was dried blood on his face, hands and under his fingernails. Perhaps he has injured himself some way. I do not like to talk about my customers - I have always made that a policy - but there was just something about him... his eyes all wild and bloodshot. Sir, maybe someone ought to see about him."

"Are you sure it was blood that you saw and not dirt?"

"Aye, it was blood all right. I have trained myself to notice things like this about my patrons. A man in my business can never be too careful."

"I had come in for a late tankard of ale before turning in for the night, but I think it might be best if I find Neithan," Vorondil quietly replied. "Perhaps he has gotten himself into some sort of trouble."

"Well, sir," the keeper sighed audibly as his face sagged in relief, "I do not like to meddle... but in this case, I thought perhaps I should."

***

"Hallas!" The cold sound of Neithan's voice rang out in the empty street like the voice of Death himself come to claim a victim.

Hallas would not answer the challenge that was implicit in the sound of his name. He considered the other man a coward, a drunken babbler who would soon lose his nerve and slink back into the shadows, never having the courage to follow through with his intent. There was really no reason to reply; ignoring a rogue like that was answer enough, and so he kept walking away.

"Hallas!" the name cut through the silence of the night. "Answer me!" The voice sounded familiar, but since the man would not identify himself, Hallas would continue to ignore him. "Hallas!" the man demanded again, and Hallas could hear hatred in the voice. He felt an icy shiver race down his spine.

"Who are you?" he demanded angrily.

"An old friend. You should know me quite well."

"What do you want?" Hallas kept his back straight, his voice calm and even. He would show this man no fear.

"Satisfaction!" The word was a hoarse, grating rasp of challenge. Hallas felt the man's eyes boring into his backbone, eyes of rage and malice. 

"You talk in riddles... satisfaction for what?" Hallas stopped and turned to face the other man. 

"Hallas! You know exactly what I am talking about!"

"You are a drunken braggart! Go to hell and take your bottle with you! I have no time for your nonsense!" Hallas turned his back on him and began to walk up the street in measured strides, ignoring the man behind him. 

"Die!"

The word came to Hallas' ears at the same moment that he heard the swish of steel as a sword was drawn, the familiar metallic ring of the blade clearing the confines of its sheath. Hallas' fingers had just gripped the hilt of his sword when Neithan grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him around to face him.

"Sergeant!" Hallas gasped in the brief moment left to him, the stark realization that this was not a bluff flooding his mind. "What are you doing?"

"Killing a bastard," Neithan replied as he drew back his arm and plunged his sword through his rival's throat, the blade angling upward and ripping out through the back of his neck. Still holding him by the shoulder, Neithan stared into Hallas' eyes as the life ebbed from his body. Hallas tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped his blood filled mouth was a croaking gurgle. Incredulously, he gaped at his murderer, feebly clutching his throat as the blood spewed from his neck and mouth. Neithan pulled back his sword and the dead man slumped to the ground.

"Farewell, Hallas," Neithan whispered triumphantly. He had little time to gloat over the body of his fallen enemy before he heard the sharp voice of his commander.

"Sergeant! What have you done?"

Neithan spun around to see Vorondil, who stared at him in disbelief.

"I have killed him," Neithan laughed madly, "and if you do not let me pass, I will kill you, too!"

"Sergeant, in the name of the Steward and the City, I hereby place you under arrest!" Neithan saw the sudden movement of Vorondil's hand as it slid to the pommel of his sword. Lunging forward, Neithan drove his still thirsty blade into Vorondil's stomach before the captain's weapon could clear the scabbard. Vorondil's eyes bulged and he shuddered in agony as he felt the sword sink deep into his bowels. His body caught on the deadly blade, Vorondil staggered forward and gripped his old friend's shoulders for support in his dying moments.

"My comrade, I am sorry; I truly am, but you never should have interfered," Neithan whispered gently as he shoved Vorondil back, drawing his sword out of the wound as the captain collapsed onto the pavement. "I never planned for this to happen. Perhaps we will meet again someday... perhaps sooner than later."

With that, Neithan turned and fled into the shadowy darkness.

***

In the mists of autumn, Lhûnwen came to him as he was watching the fallen leaves borne along on the rushing waters of a stream. At the time, he had thought that it seemed strange that she should come to him on the date of what would have been their wedding. There was no accusation in her silvery voice as she spoke his name and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He remembered that she had smiled as he turned around to gaze at her. He reached out to embrace her, but she slipped from his grasp like dandelion silk flutters away in a breeze.

"Come back!" he cried desperately.

"Oh, I will, I always will, my love," she murmured sweetly. "I will always be here with you!" She came closer to him, and joyously he rushed forward to meet her, eager to touch her once again. Looking up to him, she slid her arms around his neck and gently brushed her lips over his.

"Oh, my heart, you should not worry! The poison did not hurt... at least not for very long. The poppies made my death from hemlock a peaceful one. I was sad, though, my darling, that the shock and grief of my going proved too much for my father's heart, and he soon followed me in death. But he is not with me, and I do not quite understand why. I think perhaps he has answered the call of Mandos, but I simply could not. There is far too much to hold me here. You will be happy, my dearest one, to learn that when life fled me, Hallas bid me welcome, and Captain Vorondil was with him. We will never leave you! Never! We love you far too much for that."

***

Since that day by the stream so many years ago, Lhûnwen had often returned to him. They would walk quietly together, sometimes reminiscing about better days. He was never alone... not really, anyway... for when Lhûnwen did not appear, sometimes there would be others... others besides Hallas and Vorondil whom he had killed over the years. He had never wanted to kill any of them, but circumstances had forced him to do the foul deed.

There had been those two men whom he killed after he had fled Minas Tirith. They had been on his trail for days. He would gladly have allowed them to go unscathed, but they were tireless. When they had finally gotten too close to him, he laid wait in ambush and shot them both through the guts with well placed arrows. He had wept when they fell, but what other choice did he have?

The sun had shone down benevolently through the branches when he buried them in honor in the forest. He had turned his head reverently towards the Lost Island, the haven of the West, as he delivered a long and moving eulogy for the two whom he had just slain. The men had liked that, and since then they had often shared his journeys, walking with him when the evenings were still and the sun was on the sea. 

He had covered many miles and seen many things since he had been a young swain paying court on the fair Lhûnwen. He had journeyed to the fabled lands of the East, where he had seen palaces of gold and ivory and riches beyond belief. He fought as a mercenary for sultans and khans, selling his sword to the highest bidder. Then when great wealth, power and influence were in his hands, the sickness had returned and he had wandered away, forgetting the places he had been and the things that he had seen. But always, through all his many wanderings, Lhûnwen and the others had been with him. No matter where he journeyed, his thirsty sword had continued adding to the number of his unseen companions until sometimes he felt that he led a great army of the dead. Guilt and loneliness were two emotions that Neithan never felt.

After long years in the East, Neithan finally returned to Gondor, a grizzled, scarred veteran of many battles. He avoided civilization as much as he could, venturing there only when he needed supplies which he could not obtain in the wilderness - arrowheads, salt and tea. Many times he hunted in Ithilien, for the land was grown up and wild, and the game was plentiful. The rangers paid little heed to him because they took pity on the mad wanderer. They also appreciated his skills with a bow, often finding the carcasses of orcs which he had mercilessly slaughtered.

In time, the orcs grew to fear him, and called him the Mad Berseker of Ithilien. Only a few of them had ever seen him, and then they had to exercise all of their skills at evasion to avoid the arrows which seemed to fly out of nowhere and come from everywhere at once. The braver ones - those who lived to tell the tale - reported that they had seen the madman as he carried on long conversations with people who were not there or recited strange, disjointed poetry which made no sense.

When Neithan first came to Ithilien, the orcs had found his erratic behavior a laughingstock. "The mad fool," they sneered and laughed. "He talks to people who are not there! Why should we waste our time hunting him down?" Their low opinion of Neithan changed, though, after they observed his uncanny ability to track them down and slaughter them in great numbers. Perhaps the "spirits" were indeed guiding him, and he was to be greatly feared. 

Things finally reached such a turn that the orcs concentrated a great effort to capture Neithan, dedicating many of their number to that end. At last, after great losses, they managed to capture him and bound him in chains. Proud of their feat, they brought him to the Throne Room of the Nazgûl, which was occupied that day by only the Morgul Lord and Lord Skri the Eighth. Begging the indulgence of their lords, the orcs requested as their only reward the opportunity to torture the Mad Berserker of Ithilien for long days before finally impaling him.

"Unchain him," the Witch-king commanded. "He poses no threat to me."

The orcs had looked at their master in disbelief. Quavering and trembling, they had cautiously unchained the tall Gondorian, careful to keep out of the reach of his powerful arms.

"So you are the one they call the Morgul Lord?" Neithan asked as the chains fell to his feet. His delusional mind was not overly impressed by the hooded figure who sat upon the great ebony throne. The orcs slunk away to the dark recesses of the vast chamber, hoping to see their old tormentor reduced to a smoking pile of ash upon the floor. 

"That is one of my many titles," the Witch-king agreed amiably. "Although my rightful title is King of Númenor, and consequentially the rightful king of Gondor."

"And they say that I am the mad one," Neithan cackled, amused when he heard the orcs murmur in disbelief.

"Let us kill him, Majesty, for his insufferable impertinence!" they shouted for his blood. "Kill him! Kill him!"

"Silence!" the wraith lord growled. "When I want your opinion, I will ask for it." His words fell like a heavy hammer, sending the orcs slinking like cringing dogs back into the shadows. "I would question this man and probe his mind."

"My lord," the Eighth Nazgûl spoke up in thought, "this man is no more mad than any other, for all men are mad. This one, however, shows promise of amusing us in idle hours. When the bards have told all their tales and the singers have sung all their songs, he shall be our jester. Who knows?" The Rhûnian lord's pale lips curled up in a wry smile. "Perhaps he will prove of some value. We might find in time that he is worthy to become one of our kind so that he can entertain us forever."

The Morgul Lord slowly turned his head towards the Eighth, his cold eyes withering in their intensity. "Lord Skri, I see nothing in this man worthy of such honors."

"But, my lord," Skri dared to say, "I can never have a son of the blood, for I remain faithful to my beloved who slipped away to the Houses of the Dead so many years ago. But a servant... a companion... a son of the blade... someone like us... whom I could teach and mentor..."

"One of you is quite enough," the Witch-king scoffed. Skri could be so damned mawkish when he groveled. He wondered if the Eighth were falling into one of his episodes of melancholia which could drag on for years. When he was in that condition, he could fall into a state of torpor, lying rigidly immobile upon a marble bier beside his beloved in the crypt. 

"Your will, Majesty." The Eighth bowed his head, dejected by his master's rebuke.

"We will now get back to the matter at hand," the Witch-king replied in thought. The Eighth refused to look at him, and the Witch-king knew by his slouched shoulders that the Eighth was sulking. He must not show Skri the slightest indication that his bizarre sense of humor had nettled him once again, but he found no amusement in the idea of allowing a raving madman to join the illustrious order of the servants of the Nazgûl.

The Morgul Lord turned his attention back to the Gondorian, who still stood proudly, singing and babbling nonsensical verse. "Only four types of men fear not the Nazgûl," the wraith thought to himself. "The simpleminded, the mad, the suicidal, and those whose will is staunch. This man falls into the category of the insane. He is arrogant, though, as Gondorians are, but I shall teach him respect." 

The gleaming silver orbs which peered out from the darkness of the Nazgûl's hood caught Neithan's eyes. Gently at first, the wraith lord began to probe the madman's thoughts, and when he had gained a foothold in Neithan's mind, he unleashed his power. Neithan's laughter gurgled in his throat as he felt the pressure steadily begin to build inside his skull. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed as the pressure intensified. He gripped his skull as he felt sliding tendrils of mental energy twisting through the convoluted chambers of his deranged mind. Clutching his head, he fell to his knees, shrieking as the pain exploded inside his skull. His brain was being pulled out through his nostrils, and he watched in tortured fascination as it floated before his eyes, a blood covered white mass which throbbed and pulsed, the ridges and valleys running with rivers of blood. 

"Master, Master!" Neithan wailed, surprised that he could still articulate even a word. He felt the penetrating eyes of the Witch-king strip him of everything - dignity, honor, integrity - and he was left naked and exposed on the bare cold floor of the throne room. He screamed again as he felt his brain as it was sucked back through his nostrils to fill his empty skull. Then there was relief, blessed relief. Exhausted, covered with sweat, his bowels and bladder having betrayed him, he smelled the stench of his disgrace and felt a great desire to lap the soles of the Witch-king's boots in gratitude for his great mercy.

"Take this fool out!" Angmar remarked, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. "He broke far quicker than I ever thought he would. I know every vile thought that he has ever possessed, every crime that he has ever committed, every murder, every theft, every sordid little love affair in all its lurid detail. Now he offers no further interest to me."

"Master, Master!" the orcs howled, wanting their prey delivered into their hands. "Can we torture him now?

"Silence and listen to my judgment!" Angmar commanded, and the orcs threw themselves down before him. "I hereby banish this man and his rabble of motley spirits from Ithilien. Set a watch for him, and if he ever tries to cross the Anduin again, ferry him back across the river to Gondor. He will do the enemy far more harm than he could ever do to us."

Though the orcs muttered and grumbled amongst themselves, they never dared question their master's verdict, for they had seen so many times what he could do when he was truly angry.

As Neithan was dragged from the throne room, Angmar turned to Skri. "Now about an immortal servant for you... Perhaps someday, but only with my permission."

The Eighth bared his teeth happily, relieved that his master was not too displeased with him. "A servant," he thought wistfully. "He will be like my son. I will teach him the flute and the organ, and his company will ease the lonely passage of the years."

And so Neithan, the Accursed and Mad, had been set free once again with the Morgul Lord's blessings, and true to the Wraith's prediction, he was just as deadly to his own side as he ever was to the orcs.

Over the years, every man's hand was turned against him, though some took pity upon his affliction and even tried to help him. But it was the nature of Neithan's curse to wander and to kill. Even now, he was fleeing from the peace-loving Woses who had harbored him during his latest illness. But Lhûnwen would help him. She always did.


	28. A Midsummer Eve Dream

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"In dark and loneliness they are strongest..."  
\-- "Strider," The Fellowship of the Ring, p. 186

It was Midsummer Eve, but there were no festive bonfires burning in the little village in the Westfold beneath the eves of the mountains. There was no reason for joyous merriment, since all the men and boys old enough to bear arms were away fighting in the northwest. Locked in the ferocious struggle to drive the enemy hordes back towards the east, the united forces of Gondor and Rohan would see the most savage and bloody battles of the entire war in the coming days.

Her fair skin marred by only a few sun-blessed freckles, the woman lay upon her thin straw mattress, a simple homemade coverlet spread over her body. Her long honey blonde hair was braided in one long plait which lay draped over one shoulder, the threads of silver twining with the gold. Never regarded as a beauty, still the woman was pretty, though seventeen years of marriage and the birth of two sons had sculpted a few slight lines about her eyes. Slowly her sleeping mind was nudged awake by a growing sense of unease which encroached upon the tranquility of her dreams. The sensation drove her to wakefulness, her eyes flying open as her heart hammered in her chest.

At the end of the bed, there stood in gleaming silver the spectral figure of the tallest man whom she had ever beheld.

"Come no closer!" she cried in alarm, her eyes wide with dread, her chest heaving in terror.

"And if I do?" he chuckled, amused.

"By Béma Wáthfréa, I command you to leave!"

He laughed in spite of the pain that rolled through his body at the harsh imprecation. "Béma celebrates Midsummer Eve with Vana his spouse... Why do you disturb the Vala? Can you not allow him this brief respite from his labors?"

Moving to the head of the bed, the spectre looked down at her as he placed a gloved hand upon her shoulder. She attempted to raise her arm to push him away, but she was unable to move so much as a fingertip. It was as though her limbs had been turned to cold stone!

"Your husband is away... you are lonely... my kind is attracted to dark and lonely places... and lonely people... and it is Midsummer Eve." His voice was rich and deep, as caressingly soft as velvet rubbed across bare flesh. "Can we not share a bit of comfort upon this night that is given over to wonders?"

The woman trembled under his touch, her eyes looking up at him in terror, silently pleading with him for mercy. Oh, what would this dread spirit do to her? "Midsummer Eve is a time when elves dance in magic circles and drink the heady wine of love; when fanged and clawed creatures prowl and disturb honest folk; when fell spirits leave their barrows and walk abroad!" she timidly squeaked. "Go back and join your fell kind and leave me in peace!"

"Since I am none of those things, you have nothing to fear; I will not hurt you," he replied reassuringly as his fingers stroked the hollow of her throat.

"Then what are you?" Every nerve in her body seemed on edge, threatening to unravel like the fibers of a rope which had been pulled too taut. She must escape from him somehow!

"A lonely man who seeks solace on Midsummer Eve," he answered in a voice that was filled with such sadness that she was almost moved to pity. "And you are lonely, too... we can sense those things."

"Aye, I am lonely," she reluctantly admitted, her throat tightening as she said the words.

"So warm," he whispered as his fingertip felt the throbbing vein pulsing with the force of life. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she flushed a lovely shade of pink as she felt his cool lips moving over her neck. Though she could not command her body to do her bidding, she still could talk and blink - at least that much remained to her!

"What have you done to me?!" she whimpered. "I cannot move! If you have any mercy or pity in your heart, I beg you to free me from this spell!"

"Madame, I cannot do that. If you were not restrained, you might do something rash. Now you do not have to think, only feel, and you can soar to realms of rapture that you never would have thought possible. No longer should you feel yourself restricted to the bonds of convention, but free to give yourself over to the raw passions which surge through your body in wild rivers of desire. Even now you smolder with heat in the pit of your stomach, wanting to open yourself up to me but still afraid. Admit it!"

Almost faint with terror, the woman closed her eyes tighter and braced herself for the unbearable pain that she was certain would follow when he thrust inside her. She was about to be raped by this dread spirit, this evil incubus who would defile her with his foul essence and leave her drained and weak, a shriveled shadow of herself! When her husband returned, he would look into her eyes and sense that she had been defiled! Then he would spurn her and forbid their sons ever to speak to her again! Perhaps it would be best if this demon ended her misery now and slew her! At least she would never have to know the pain of seeing the revulsion in her husband's eyes at the knowledge that she had been ravished by this malignant phantom!

But as the spectre's teeth gently grazed over the skin at her throat, his lips pressing tender kisses over the pulsating vein, she felt her body responding against her will. And then as he enclosed one of her breasts in his large hand, lightning shot through her being and she could not suppress a low, tortured moan! His fingers caressed an erect pink nipple, unleashing the amorous demons which she kept ever at bay. Oh, how she longed for him, no longer having any strength to resist his enchantment! She flushed deeply in shame as she felt a traitorous moisture seeping from her feminine portal, the evidence of her unholy desire!

"Rape me," she begged in her thoughts, horrified at her wantonness. "Thrust that mighty rod into me over and over again! Take me deep, hard and fast! What does it matter should I feel pain? The pleasure will be only greater! Show me no mercy! Take me, my demon lover! Ohh, take me!" Oh, what was she thinking? Oh, what evil madness had possessed her? Her resolve lay in crumbled ruins, for both her mind and body had surrendered completely to his dominion!

Breathing in deeply, the spectre inhaled the mingled scents of soap, herbs and the fresh, clean smell of her body, bathed just that evening. The freshly laundered bed sheets and the newly spread straw upon the floor locked with her intensely feminine aroma, causing his nostrils to flare and quiver with excitement. Moving his hand to the coverlet which concealed her shivering body, he drew the blanket slowly down, inch by inch, until it at last rested below her dainty feet.

"Please, my lord, I am so cold," she whispered, trembling almost violently with both fear and delicious anticipation.

"Not for long," he chuckled devilishly as he lifted a rosy foot and brought it up to his mouth, teasing over the bottom with playful kisses. Her blue eyes were wide, disbelieving, as she looked down at him and felt his tongue licking, coiling around each toe, coating the recesses between with cool moisture. She could not control the delighted moans which escaped her lips, nor suppress the maddening ache betwixt her legs. As he sucked each of her toes into his mouth, she laughed in senseless delirium as his caressing tongue outlined each of her toenails. 

"My lord, you should not - my husband--"

"He is far away and his thoughts are upon fighting. He has little time to think of gentle pleasures. Woman, do not concern yourself with him, for he is not concerned with you. Think only of this time we have together and the pleasure I will bring you!"

Her toes were pleasantly warm in his mouth, and when his lips departed, the night air chilled them, making them feel cold and forlorn. She frowned at him, but her displeasure was soon turned into squeals of delight as his caressing lips moved up one of her ankles, planting kisses light as down upon her sensitive skin. And then he was sliding the hem of her night-dress up her legs, and instead of feeling fear or danger, she was impatient for what was to come! As he drew the gown up ever higher, she sensed a lessening of his power over her, sufficient enough for her to be able to thrust her hips up wantonly to allow him to remove her clothing.

She sobbed with desire as his comfortingly cool hands spread her thighs wide apart. Closing her eyes, she tried to remind herself that the longings which filled her were wicked, and that she was being unfaithful to her husband. But somehow morality did not seem important any longer. She wiggled as she gave her mind over to delicious abandonment, fantasizing of how it would feel when his massive weapon was enclosed up to the hilt in her throbbing sheath.

"Do I disappoint you?" he chuckled deeply.

"My lord, I scarcely know what to say. I am sure that this is terribly wrong, but it feels so wonderfully right! I think that you have bewitched me!"

"Do you enjoy my caresses?" he asked as though the question really mattered to him. How different from her husband, who, after satisfying his own needs, grunted, rolled over and fell asleep!

"Ohh, yes!" she cried out. "Even though I may be condemned for it - yes!"

"Then how could anything that felt so good be wrong?" He was tempting her, she knew it, but yet she could not resist him and what he was doing to her body! Reveling in her sensual torment, he bent his head and slowly, sensuously licked first the inside of one silky thigh and then the other. Writhing in ecstasy, she screamed in the throes of passion. His tongue drew closer and closer to the swollen apex that marked the beginning of her valley of love. As he kneaded its surrounding slopes with his strong fingers, she feared that if he continued, the urgings he stirred within her would drive her mad with desire!

"Oh - my lord - you must not!" she whimpered, her words coming between gasping, ragged breaths. "Ohh! What you do is not - ahhh! - not done! Ohh! Not even my husband has - oh, oh - ever, ever touched me there like - like - ohhh! --" she screamed, arching her back, "--like that!" 

"What a pity, Madame," he murmured, his voice husky with sensual hunger, "that your husband has denied himself so much by never savoring the sweet nectar of your passion. I have no intention of making the same mistake!"

Her body was now burning with a fire that had lain dormant for far too long! Her senses left her and she screamed in rapture as he sucked the ruby of her passion into his mouth. Then when she felt his thrusting tongue plunge into the seething depths of her fiery pit of love, the fount of passion erupted, spewing her molten honey into his mouth. Another intense spasm rippled through her recesses, and an even more violent wave rocked her as his tongue kept up its erotic rhythm, sending her falling back upon the mattress in a deep swoon.

He awakened her later with a kiss that drove into her soul. She opened her eyes and found that she could move once again. She reached out for him, but he was no longer there! A vacant emptiness, a sorrow more intense than any she had never felt in her life, rushed over her like the cold winds of autumn, threatening to consume her soul. She yearned to call his name, but she did not even know what it was!

"Please, please come back, my lord!" she cried in her anguish. "I was so lonely before I felt your touch!"

"Madame, I would never leave you before I had solaced the loneliness that you have felt for so long. I assure you, that when I depart from here, you will have known a more intense and deep fulfillment than you have ever experienced in your life."

Relief flooded her heart like the rush of water through a dry creek bed at the end of a drought. "What is your name, beloved spirit?" she asked, tears of joy causing her eyes to sparkle in the dim moonlight which shone through the open window.

"I have none, but surely you have learned by this time that I am not altogether spirit," he chuckled. He reached a hand down to her and pulled her to her feet as though she weighed nothing more than thistle-down. She closed her eyes as he slid the hem of her gown up her body and over her head, the material rushing over her skin like a breeze. Opening her eyes, she tried to find him in the darkness of the room. 

"Where are you? I can no longer see you!"

"In front of you." Once again she saw the spectral figure and felt his strong arms around her. Then his lips moved over hers in a fiery kiss that was nothing like the feeble attentions of her husband! His lips burned into hers as his tongue pushed its way past her lips, plunging deeply within her mouth. So great was her excitement that she felt close to swooning again, and her hands clutched his shoulders to anchor her to the earth!

Her husband... She was betraying him! Oh, what a wicked woman she was! She was no better than a common harlot! What was she doing? Oh, damn this evil spirit who had ensorcelled her with a spell of utter wantonness! She pulled away from his mouth, but still she kept her hands on his shoulders, both to help steady herself and because she could not bear to let go.

"I cannot!" she gasped, attempting to cling to some shred of lingering loyalty to her husband. 

"Why not?" he asked as he took command of her lips once more.

"I am... married," she choked out between his kisses, her heart feeling as though it were being wrenched in twain.

"We established that fact earlier," a deep chuckle rumbled in his throat.

"It would not be right--" she tried to speak, but his lips only forced themselves upon hers again. Much to the dismay of her conscience, she did not object at all and softened her lips as she gave into him willingly. Now it was as though her lips were sealed to his as he slid his tongue in and out of her unprotesting mouth. Moaning, her fingers dug deeply into his shoulders. If she gave into his demands and willingly allowed him to make love to her, her soul would be lost for all eternity! But what did it matter - just so long as he kept touching her, arousing her, inflaming her with forbidden lust!

His hands slid like serpents over her body, ceaselessly caressing, touching spots that nearly sent her hurdling over the edge. His fingers brushed over her breasts, teasing the swollen nipples before taking the globes in his hands. Her legs trembled under her, and as she teetered, one of his hands darted between her legs. Her body arched in response and she moaned as she clenched her thighs and rode his hand. Her head spun dizzily as two of his skilled fingers added more fuel into her already seething furnace. His probing fingers stoked the fires and she felt every last shred of her resolve break as she drenched him once more with a torrent of heated rain.

"Madame, such a lovely and passionate woman as you should never be alone on a night of enchantment!"

"Oh - my - lord! No!" she choked out, as though smitten by a death blow.

He caught her as she fell, whimpering and quivering, into his powerful arms. "Close your bewitching blue eyes and rest a while," he whispered into her ear. Then picking her up, he carried her to her bed, placing her gently down upon the mattress.

"Please do not leave me!" she wailed weakly as she reached a hand up to touch him.

"Then you have changed your mind and wish for me to stay?" He sounded surprised. "When I first appeared before you, you tried to drive me away."

"I was foolish!" she sobbed in anguish. "I thought that you would hurt me! Please stay, O beloved Dwimmerlaik! You hold the key to my heart!"

"Beautiful one, I will abide with you for a while. This is Midsummer Eve, when the gossamer curtains are parted and the hidden is reveled. This is the night of magic and rapture, when mortals sometimes walk amid the forbidden realms."

"My lord, I am drunken upon the wine of your kisses! Never have I known such ecstasy as you have brought me!"

"You must rest, Madame, for mortals do not possess the strength to endure for long the passions of those who have been... changed... as... I have been. You see, we are insatiable, and our lusts know no bounds!"


	29. My Beloved Dwimmerlaik

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

A kiss as sweet as honeyed mead woke the Rohirric woman some time later, and, stretching languorously, she felt a sense of marvelous refreshment washing over her body. With a sensation that she was more alive than she had ever been in her life, her skin tingled with radiant vibrancy, as though it had been soothed with a magic balm. Touching her face, she was amazed to find that her skin was no longer rough and careworn, but soft and supple as that of a young girl.

"Come, beauty, you have rested long enough," the phantom's deep, powerful voice gently commanded her. "While you slept, I wove another spell which will strengthen you and make you able to withstand the fullness of my fierce ardor! Rise from your bed now and let me unbraid your hair. I want to see it fall in waves about your shoulders."

Arising from the bed with a soft sigh, she no longer felt any sense of shame at being nude before a man who was not her husband. She wanted him to gaze upon her and find her sensual and alluring, and as lovely as a bride upon her wedding day. Oh, how she wanted to excite him, to drive him into a flaming passion! How she yearned to feel within her depths the full magnitude of that protuberance that had surged against her when she had clung to him! With a fluttering in her heart, she approached him on trembling legs.

Turning her around with his hand, he began unbinding her braided hair. "You are incredibly lovely; your face and body an incomparable delight." Taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, he brought it to his nostrils and inhaled deeply. "Such delightful hair... so soft... so silky ... And the scent... intoxicating!" As he released her tresses, the strands fell about her hips, a cascade of gold no longer tainted by silver. "Now rid me of my garments, and you will discover for yourself that I am not so much a spirit as you might believe," he murmured hungrily as he turned her around to face him.

"Oh, my lord, I cannot!" she cried, her hand flying up to press against her pounding bosom. Her courage had failed her again, for she was overcome by the realization that he was a mighty sorcerer who possessed powers that defied her comprehension! Ever did his form fade in and out of her vision, sometimes appearing clear and at other times appearing blurry, as though she were looking at him through an ever changing mist. What if after disrobing him she found some ravening monster who would destroy her as he joined his body with hers? What evil beast lay beneath those robes?

"And why can you not?"

"I - I am afraid of what I will find!"

"A very ardent and affectionate man, and one who is in great need," he replied frankly.

"My lord, I am only a simple peasant woman and know nothing of sorcerers and magic." She bowed her head humbly.

"In simplicity, there is great beauty." He lifted her chin in his hand and stroked her lips with his thumb. "A mouth could be termed but a simple part of the body, but what a corridor of delight a simple kiss can open!" She felt his powerful hands on her shoulders, pulling her closer, his lips coming down upon hers, demanding a kiss. Her mouth was soft and yielding under his hungry lips. He crushed her body against his, pressing one powerful kiss after another onto her full lips until she felt dizzy and lightheaded. 

"There, sweet one," he murmured as he held her at arm's length, his fingers massaging her shoulders, "are you convinced now of the power of simplicity?"

"Oh, yes, my lord," she purred as she looked up at the misty figure, her eyes filled with yearning. "But I wonder why you chose me when there are so many great ladies who would be far more likely than I to command the attention of such a noble lord as yourself."

"Madame, I have loved queens and princesses... and others whose power is older than this world itself... Perhaps I have grown tired of the great ladies of noble lineage who value the gold and jewels in their coronets more than they do a love that is given honestly. Ever have I found myself drawn to the humble and common, the peasant women who toil and sweat in their labors, working in the fields, planting the gardens, and tending to the flocks and herds. They have their own beauty, honest and unassuming."

"Oh, lord, I am speechless!" Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at such lavish compliments.

"Now, my sweet and gentle lady, let us not trifle away the remaining hours of this night in conversation."

"But, my lord, I beg of you a boon?" she asked him, her voice a soft caress.

"I grant it. What do you ask of me?"

"That you tell me why you picked me out of all the others, noble lady and commoner alike."

"Even from the distant skies, I could feel your distress and loneliness, the aching need deep within you. You cried out to me from your restless slumbers, begging for solace, and what could I do, save answer you?"

"Oh, beloved Dwimmerlaik," she sighed as he took her into his arms and held her tightly to his powerful chest. "You selected me because I was the most lonely of all the others upon this night of magic?"

"Is there any better reason?" he asked softly. "Now if there are no other questions and doubts... love is waiting."

"Only one thing, my lord... With the power I perceive that you possess, you must know that, while I am a passionate woman, I have always been true to my husband. Throughout all these months that he has been away, I have yearned desperately for the touch of his hand. Please believe me when I say that I am an honorable woman and have never taken a lover before. But, though it feels strange to say this, I now want you far more than I do my husband!" She gasped breathlessly as he caressed her body.

"There is no need to feel shame, beauty. You are lonely upon a night that was meant for love. You do not have to be alone any longer."

Perhaps she was only dreaming, or perhaps she was bewitched. But what did it matter? It was, after all, Midsummer Eve, a night of magic... and of love... and he was holding her... and she had been starved for affection for so long... "Then take every gift that I can offer - my body, my passion, and my love!" Her eyelashes fluttered as she gazed up at him.

"You are no longer afraid?"

"Nay, I am no longer afraid... or lonely!"

"Then disrobe me!"

With trembling hands, she began to take off his clothes. How she wished she could see his eyes, but they seemed to be hidden in a well of darkness. Were they blue like hers? Or gray, like the men of Gondor? Or brown, as were the Dunlendings, or perhaps green or hazel? Though she longed to see them, she sensed that she never would, but he was kind to her and small things were not important in light of that. She looked up to him, and he nodded his approval as her hands moved to his right shoulder. There, she unfastened the silver brooch wrought in the shape of the crescent moon. The metal pulsed in her palm, making her hand tingle with a coolness that was not unpleasant. Drawing the cloak away from his tall frame, she reverently folded the garment in half and placed it on the chest that held her husband's clothing.

She was surprised that he was wearing neither mail nor a sword belt, but doubtless he had his own reasons, and she would not ask him for an explanation. Her hands fumbled slightly as she unfastened the leather belt about his middle. He bent his great height forward, his arms outstretched as she pulled his tunic from his body. She could hardly contain her eagerness when she took off his shirt and felt the hard, corded muscles that rippled over his powerful arms and chest. Licking her lips, she buried her fingers in the thick hair that covered his chest. Then, moaning with unsated ardor, she pulled away from him and laid his tunic and shirt atop his cloak. Behind her, the sound of a heavy boot falling to the floor, followed by another, was like the most melodious of all music to her ears.

"Have you forgotten my breeches?" he teased her.

"No, my lord, I saved that for last." She smiled saucily up at him.

Sinking to her knees before him, she used her teeth to clasp the string which held fast his breeches. She looked up at him mischievously as she drew away the string. Letting loose of the cord, she watched as his breeches slowly slipped to the floor. She sobbed out a moan when she ran her fingers over the hard muscles on his stomach. As her breasts brushed against the hair upon his thighs, her nipples hardened into little pebbles which ached for his lips to suckle them.

"Sweet one, you have become emboldened," he laughed wickedly.

"The night gives me boldness," she tittered giddily as her fingers found the dark mantle at the base of his kingly scepter. She gasped in wonder when she found that her hand could not begin to encompass its great girth. Reverently clasping the throbbing staff in her hand, she slid the cloak of velvety skin back and forth over its length. Moaning as she took into her mouth the deep amethyst jewel which crowned that noble wand, she began to suckle it, her tongue caressing the setting of that priceless gem as her hand paid homage to the fleshly rod.

Groaning, he placed his hands upon her shoulders as he pushed deeper into her mouth, blessing the chamber with his salty ambrosia, only a portent of the floodwaters he held at bay. Her hand moved the covering back and forth, polishing his mighty sword with her touch and oiling it with her tongue. Her other hand rolled the two pendants that lay tight beneath the swollen magnificence of his staff.

"Madame, truly you are a worker of magic!" he gasped, his body shuddering as his font gushed forth in silver sprays, quenching the famine that her soul had suffered for so long. Sighing deeply, he bent down and swept her up in his powerful arms. Holding her to his chest, he carried her to her bed and lay her gently down. She felt the mattress sagging beneath his great weight as he moved onto the bed.

Reaching out in the darkness for him, she gasped when she found his potent staff had waxed into fullness once more. "My lord, surely not so soon!"

"Your indulgence, Madame. I told you that I was insatiable!" he laughed softly.

"Then take me, my lord, fill me deeply with your seed, for you have made me as insatiable as you!" she squealed in delight.

"Beauty, my pleasure!" he chuckled as his mouth embraced her parted lips, his cool tongue penetrating deeply inside the velvet vault. He growled impatiently as a press of his knee parted her silken thighs. She could hear drums thudding in her mind as he aligned his crest with her drenched cask.

A roll of his hips and his throbbing ram slid past her furry portcullis and buried hilt-deep into the gladly yielded stronghold. Her ivory legs slid about his middle, pulling him deeper into her satin halls. Tightening and loosening her intimate embrace, she brought the both of them ever closer to the pinnacle of pleasure. As his thunderous strivings undermined the castle, it shook upon its foundations and fell yet again to his skillful attacks. As the ramparts crumbled and her moat emptied about him, he shot forth a torrent of liquid fire which filled that furrow to overflowing.

"Ohh, my lord! You are incredible!"

As he withdrew his still-regal staff from her portals, he sighed, "Rest a while now, Madame, and later we will resume this most pleasant of salacious adventures."

"My lord, I am most willing, for in your arms I have become quite a wanton."

He rolled over onto his back and pulled her atop him. She had almost fallen asleep when the sound of humming - or was it chanting? - awakened her.

"Dwimmerlaik? Are you singing?"

"Nay, Madame. It is but a spell to safeguard you from becoming heavy with child," he murmured as he began to nuzzle her ear.

"Perhaps it is too late, my lord. I hesitate to suggest that you should have done that first," she offered impishly.

"No need, I assure you, for I could not catch the earthy scent of fecundity about you. I do this merely as a safeguard."

"You can tell when a woman is fertile?"

"Usually... but not always," he replied modestly.

"Oh!" she gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "If such a thing has happened, what shall I tell my husband?"

"Say that it is his, and he will believe you."

"But it has been months..."

"To vouchsafe your honor, I shall leave you with a potion that you will administer to him. This spell is most efficacious in causing the one who drinks it to believe almost anything that he is told. Now sleep, woman. I will have need of you again ere morning comes."

A brief silence descended before the woman spoke again.

"Dwimmerlaik?"

"Aye?"

"Stay with me! Do not leave me! I cannot bear the thought of being without you!"

"Madame, even though I should wish to tarry, I cannot, for when morning comes, the enchantment will have passed, and daylight holds little magic."

"Then embrace me, my lord, and let me know your fiery passion once more."

"Very soon, woman... but not quite yet," he laughed. 

"Aye, my love, when you are ready," she murmured as she licked over one of his nipples.

Sighing, he clasped her hand and drew it down to stroke his sword, which was raising itself up in preparation for another torrid love battle. "Oh, my beloved Dwimmerlaik!" she gasped as she impaled herself upon that mighty weapon of delight. "I will cherish this night forever!"


	30. The Divine Voyeur

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The inky night sky had lightened to a shade of soft cobalt by the time that the Nazgûl at last left the supine form of the sleeping woman. As he bent down to give her one last lingering kiss, he cast an enchantment of peaceful sleep upon her. He never enjoyed the anguished scene of a sobbing woman clinging to his cloak, begging him to stay with her for yet a while longer, or to abide with her until her dying days. Now she would sleep in serenity and awake with a cherished memory of concupiscent bliss.

He walked down the hallway from the woman's bedroom until he came to the back of the cottage. There, opening the door, he stepped out into a dreary, barren meadow and gave a cry too high-pitched for mortal ears to hear. He thought momentarily of his brethren, but he did not sense the presence of any of them. Knowing his keen appreciation for feminine beauty, it would be just like those rogues, Rut and Udu, to want to taste the wine which he had just sampled. They had been quick to do that in the past, following in his trail and then using one of his chosen after he had gone. As he watched the fell beast dropping down from the sky to alight nearby, Angmar had no doubt that the two Númenórean lords would be pleased with this latest selection.

As he mounted the creature, the wraith's body shuddered, a slight motion which would not have been perceived by a mortal. A slight tingling numbness touched the right side of his head, spreading and growing until the sensation had encompassed both hemispheres of his brain. As surely as if he were in the physical presence of Sauron, he could feel his Master's mighty power clenching his brain and boring into his skull like the clawed fingers of some monstrous hand. The wraith did not command the beast to mount to the skies, but sat quietly in the saddle and took in his breath slowly, laboriously, waiting for what he knew must come next.

"My little kinglet," the languorous, sardonic voice oozed into his mind like some viscous poison, "once again thou hast wielded the ever ready weapon which lies between thy legs, and of which thou art so inordinately proud. It is far beyond My comprehension as to why thou placeth so much importance upon such a... small matter as that." Sauron sniffed disdainfully, as though he were speaking of some mold which festered upon rotting meat. "The puny mannish weakness of carnality continues ever to reside with thee! Though thou wouldst rid thyself of this flaw, thou art helpless to forsake the earthly corporality which clings to thee like the moldering grave clothes of a corpse! Perhaps it would be far more merciful for Me to sever forever the instrument of thy temptation and leave thee as a eunuch! Thy brethren, too, would be far better off without their jaded pricks to distract them from doing My work!"

The Nazgûl could sense that his Master sighed heavily, a great heaving sigh like the tortured uplifting of earth and rocks before a cataclysmic eruption of Amon Amarth. He knew that the Dark Lord was tearing at his long, sable locks in an exaggerated show of disappointment and frustration. Groaning miserably, Sauron flung himself back onto His dark throne. Of course, the Dark Lord, ever the hypocrite, was hardly known as a paragon of virtue. The orgies of the Tower were infamous, where fang, fur and claw pressed against silken flesh, leathery scales, and slime-drenched tentacles in a tangle of writhing bodies which encompassed every imaginable race and kind from balrog to vampire.

"My foppish little king, thou tirest Me with these ceaseless displays of thy licentiousness! Thou wouldst have been far more impressive hast thou shown some spine and raped her like the monster that thou art!" Sensing the Nazgûl's anger at the reminder of past and present misdeeds, Sauron regarded him incredulously. "Oh, do not act so offended, Witch-king, and attempt to play the part of the innocent who has been falsely accused! Thou carest no more for this strumpet than thou didst the first one, that peasant woman of old Númenor, the plain-faced shepherdess whose insignificant name escapes Me! She was the first one whom thou ravished so cruelly and savagely, My guilty kinglet. From thy simpering behavior of last night, though, it wouldst be supposed that thou wert naught but a foolish swain besotted by the village wench whom he had threaded in the barn of some turnip farmer!"

"Most merciful and omnipotent Master," the wraith's eyes glared dully as he gazed at the loathsome vision of Sauron before his eyes, "perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but I feel that I must remind Thee that I have regretted the deed for these many long years. I was angry at being forced into a marriage of political expediency and took my fury out on her."

"Faeleth!" Sauron snapped His black fingers, the noise sounding much like the popping of rocks when lava oozes over them. "Now I remember!" 

"Aye, my Lord, Faeleth was her name," Angmar returned quietly. For a fleeting moment, he saw her face flash before his vision, just as beautiful and desirable as she was that day so many centuries ago. That image was quickly obliterated by her tear-streaked face and pleading voice.

"She was nothing, a wench who reeked of sheep dung and greasy wool, and what didst thou do, thou spineless bag of jelly?" Mocking laughter rang out in the Nazgûl's brain like the cackling of a demented jester. "Thou offered to pay her the same wage as a common whore! If thou hadst any manhood at all about thee, thou wouldst have raped the wench and thought nothing of it."

"Indeed, my Lord, my faults are many." The wraith bowed his head diffidently, waiting until he sensed that the Master's rage had diminished. Sauron seemed in no haste to resume His diatribe, and the Witch-king allowed himself to relax a little. Then the Dark Lord spoke once again, and His voice was like the blaring of many discordant trumpets in the Witch-king's mind. Angmar stifled the urge to squeeze his head between his hands, clutching it in agony as multitudes of showering sparks rained down upon his senses.

"I am slow to wrath, long-suffering, and compassionate, but thou, O foolish minion, test My patience to its very limit! While My armies are being beaten back towards Edoras, thou spendest thy nights trysting with the wives of other men! Thou base cockscomb! Thou hast forsaken the leadership of My forces to waste thy time in the lust-scented, rumpled beds of thy mistresses! Hast thou forgotten My purposes? All of Middle-earth yearns to feel the loving touch of My hand and the cleansing power of My rule! And what dost thou do?" Tipped with a perfectly manicured long and curving golden claw, a black finger shook accusingly at the Witch-king. "Thwart Me at every opportunity with thy bungling incompetence and thy froward ways! I could have sent to Far Harad for a jabbering baboon, and he would have made a better commander for My armies than thou ever couldst!"

His lord was exceedingly wrathful that morning, but that was hardly unexpected, not with the way the war had been going of late. After the great victory in the South, Gorthaur had believed that the whole world would soon be at His feet. However, His hopes had been shattered with the defeat at Helm's Deep only a week before. Now His armies were steadily being driven back, each mile costing copious amounts of blood, pain and expense. Many of His troops had been routed, panicking and fleeing the field of battle.

In a few more days, Edoras would surely fall and be recaptured by the West. With the prospects of a final victory by an alliance headed by Aragorn, Éomer and Glorfindel, it was only a matter of time until Sauron's enemies would be ridiculing Him, calling Him a puny weakling. Then would they swarm over the Black Land like a horde of devouring locusts? Not since the Battle of the Last Alliance had Sauron been faced with such a relentless foe intent upon His destruction! And it was all the Morgul Lord's fault! The Black Captain's plans for the campaign had been faulty from the very beginning! That pompous, egomaniacal little fool had not even been able to grasp the One Ring when it was right before him!

The Voice raved on monotonously, the sound of the bellowing trumpets this time reminding the wraith of the incessant drone of an irritating insect. "But dost thou carest, little kinglet? Dost thou carest at all? All thou carest about is thyself and thine own pleasure! I should crush thee like the insignificant, disgusting worm that thou art! Thou hast only the wit to copulate like some fat Eastern potentate, whose only aspiration in life is to enlarge his harem! Why, I should abolish the orc breeding programs and make thee the father of My armies! Thou couldst breed a multitude, but neither thee nor any of thy bastard spawn would be fit to lead the host!" As though an afterthought, Sauron hissed, "Speak now, thou fool, and defend thyself if thou canst!"

The wraith's senses had been battered by the constant barrage of invectives, and he struggled to think of an answer. When he finally spoke, he was trembling. "O Great Lord, I confess that I am a fool." An unbidden thought of the orc breeding pits came to him, and he wondered if even his insatiable manhood could survive the rigorous challenge of mating a constant procession of female orcs. The thought was too intimidating to consider, and he turned his attention back to his Lord. "The wisdom in Thy words is always unquestionable, Master. But please explain to the simpleton before Thee why Thou ever didst bestow upon me that Ring in the first place?" He steeled himself for the response to his challenge.

"How darest thou speak to Me in such a manner! I should destroy thee right now and send thy fëa shrieking to Eru, but not even He would take a wretch like thee! Then where would thou goest? Groveling back to Me, of course! Morgul Lord, thou wilt always come back to Me, crawling on thy belly like a cringing dog! And I will always take thee back, for I am, of all the divinities, the most loving and merciful!" The Dark Lord had grown so angry that He was virtually hysterical. His shrill voice ripped through the wraith's mind, and the unseen hand that clenched his skull threatened to close and crack it like an egg.

"Ever shall I remember Thy everlasting loving kindness and never cease to remind myself of it when Thou art flailing the skin from my back." Angmar smiled softly as he beheld the image of his Master's black face contorting in rage. Oh, he knew that he would pay for that insult, but sometimes the agony was worth it. 

"Thou saucy strumpet!" Sauron railed, almost sputtering in His divine fury. "Thou ungrateful pawn who owes everything to Me! Thou wouldst be nothing! Nothing, I tell thee! My pretty dandy, if I had not given thee the Ring, thou wouldst be dead, dust, in a tomb somewhere! I have raised thee from the corruptible to incorruptibility! I have given thee life everlasting, and thou repayest Me with treachery, insolence and scorn! I have reached down from the seat of My holy godhead, My spotless sanctity, My immaculate holiness, and been as a father to thee and thy brethren! I have revealed Myself to thee, My Númenórean son, as I have done to no others of mortal kind! I have opened Mine heart unto thee and given unstintingly of My love, My pure, sacred and gracious love! My love, I tell thee, and thou hast repaid me with this!"

Angmar could hear Sauron sobbing, and he knew that the Dark Lord had fallen into one of His mad tantrums. Very likely at this time, one of His fawning courtiers was collecting His tears in crystal phials as the golden droplets spilled down His sable cheeks. 

"Perfidious fool! Thou art a viper, a poisonous serpent, who deserves only eternal death! I trusted thee and now thou hast slapped Me in the face! How darest thou do this! Thou hast crushed Me and ripped My heart from My breast! I am disconsolate! Thou hast lost the war for Me and betrayed My trust! It is torture to speak to thee! My son, My son, the beloved one whom I trusted! I can bear it no longer!" A long, wailing moan punctuated the last lament.

Suddenly the Witch-king felt the Presence departing from his mind, and the intense pressure upon his skull dissipated. "He is gone," Angmar sighed ponderously, his soul trembling in relief. "Mad! He is even more mad than He was seventy-seven years ago when His insane anger drove Him to destroy everything I held dear!" Gorthaur would be back, though. He never really left. At times, the Witch-king thought that Gorthaur and he would be bound together for the rest of eternity, locked in the same yoke, and that nothing, short of Eru Himself, could ever break the unholy bond that lay between them.

The diamond on the golden band sparkled ominously, reminding the wraith - as though he could forget - that his master, the Dark Lord, would be thirsting for vengeance once again. Perhaps this time, the Mighty One would finally destroy him, but that was not such a dismal thought. He wanted to die, to escape the existence that was little more than a torment. Perhaps he would be free at last.


	31. The Undead Suitor

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild 

Beneath him, the fell beast burbled, reminding him of its presence. The great creature stretched out its neck, its maw gaping open as a mighty belch rumbled forth from deep in the pit of its stomach. A fetid stench was left behind as it closed its mouth and hiccupped twice. Coiling its head around like a snake, it placidly stared back at him, its beady eyes unblinking. The wraith patted the creature upon its scaly head and idly noted that the beast had breakfasted upon decaying man flesh.

Gathering up the reins, Angmar tapped the beast's flanks lightly with his spurs, and with an unspoken command, sent it flapping skyward. He must think - in private. Taking the Ring off his finger, he severed the link with his master, but he knew that if Sauron compelled him to return the Ring to his hand, he would have no choice. He cursed himself for not removing the Ring when he was making love to the Rohirric peasant woman. Why had he made such a careless mistake? Or... had it been a mistake? Magic Rings had a way of finding themselves upon one's finger at the most inopportune of times. Perhaps it was Sauron's will that Angmar wear his Ring so that He might observe the wraith from afar and determine if he was attending to his duties? 

Or, for that matter, the Dark Lord could have planted a seed of lust in the Witch-king's mind to test whether his devotion to the war outweighed his love for a pretty face. If that had been the case, the Witch-king had failed the test miserably, walking blindly into the trap laid by his Master. An uncomfortable thought then slithered through the Witch-king's mind like a slime-drenched worm: what if the peasant woman had never existed, and the whole encounter had been a hallucination fabricated by the Dark Lord? For when one wore a Ring of Power, he walked in the world between the worlds and beheld a realm which was denied unto mortals, but all too often his sight was limited to the visions which the Lord of the Rings wished for him to see. Ever the puppet master, Sauron took great delight in playing games of the mind, and the Witch-king had been His opponent for over four thousand years.

For the sake of his own sanity, the Witch-king chose to believe that the woman had been real and he had spent Midsummer Eve in her tender embrace. Delusional though it may be, it gave him a sense of control over his own destiny if he pretended that every vision that his eyes beheld was based upon reality and that the Dark Lord had no power over his perceptions. True it was that it was no difficult task for Sauron to command his will and force him to become a creature he despised, but it made slavery far more tolerable for the Witch-king if he imagined that his mind was still free. 

Angmar had been left shaken to his core by the Dark Lord's angry, tear-filled tirade. If the lonely farmer's wife had indeed been real, was her life now in danger because of him? The liaison, brief though it had been, had enraged the Dark Lord. Would Sauron, in a fit of unreasoning wrath, order the execution of this poor peasant woman? Perhaps as punishment, the Witch-king would be commanded to murder her himself and watch in horror and guilt as the expression of confused betrayal faded from her dying eyes. Disciplining the Númenórean had always been a challenge for Sauron, for the ancient prince possessed a will as strong as iron and an incredible tolerance for pain. His mortal companions, however, were another matter entirely. Hurting them was the only way to bring pain to the Witch-king, to break his indomitable spirit and inflict agony upon his heart and soul. 

Of all the Nazgûl, the Witch-king always bore the greatest measure of the Dark Lord's wrath... and, paradoxically, the greatest measure of His love. The Númenórean prince had always been Sauron's favorite, His beloved foster son, the apple of the Great Eye. Power, prestige, and great favor had He bestowed upon the Númenórean, and many boons did He give and promises He did make. But when Númenor sank beneath the waves, the Nazgûl turned against his Master, for it had been Sauron's foolish scheming that had been the undoing of his people. Though the Witch-king could never sever the bonds of his servitude to Sauron, ever and anon did he seek surreptitious ways to defy his Master out of spite. And thus where there had once been love and loyalty there now was only enmity and resentment. Though Sauron had endured the agony and heartbreak of His servant's rejection for thousands of years, still He refused to give up hope that the Númenórean prince might one day return His pure and tender affections. And so, with all the resolve in His black heart, the Dark Lord determined to make the Witch-king love him, if not out of free will, then with cold, brutal force. 

The Witch-king always remembered the incidents of brutality and force far more than he did any of the favors or rewards granted upon him by his dangerously capricious Master. Memories of torture and friends and lovers executed before his eyes haunted his nightmares, the few times he allowed himself the luxury of sleeping...

Seventy-seven years before, Sauron had ordered the murder of every member of the Witch-king's household, from the highest courtier to the lowliest stable boy. Their screams still could be heard upon quiet days and the darkest nights, an echo trapped in time, branded into the fabric of Arda. The enchantments which had been woven over the Morgul Vale mitigated the passage of time, but they also preserved impressions of the past, memories of blood and death and great suffering. A traveler journeying through the vale might wake up in the night to the screams of dying men all around him; yet a terrified glance at his surroundings revealed that he was alone. While the Witch-king usually enjoyed the company of ghosts, these echoes of the past tormented him with guilt, for they took him back to those dark days when he thought he could vie against Sauron and win. So many people had died because of his pride, good men and women who served him out of love and loyalty. As their king, he had failed them all. Deep in his heart he felt that he had as much of a part in their deaths as did Sauron. After all, it was his defiance that had started the war... 

After being driven from Dol Guldur, the Dark Lord returned to His ancient home in Mordor. He had regained much of His strength and the ability to assume a corporal form, and even though He had been forced to relinquish His fortress in Mirkwood, He was filled with a newfound confidence and a grand scheme to dominate all of Middle-earth. At that time the One Ring remained lost, but there were other methods of obtaining power: by wielding the Nine Rings of Men and the Seven Rings of the Dwarves. However, this would prove a greater challenge than Sauron had first anticipated. Having possessed their Rings for thousands of years, the Nazgûl were loath to give up their magical bejeweled bands, and the Witch-king led his fellows in a rebellion against Sauron. It was a lost cause and doomed from the start, for the wraiths could never hope to defeat their Master in a show of might and sorcery. And so the war was lost, and one by one the Nazgûl were forced to relinquish their Rings and submit once again to thralldom under the Dark Lord. As punishment for not surrendering their Rings willingly, the Witch-king and his fellows were forced to watch as the members of their households were murdered one by one. 

The Morgul Lord remembered that black day as clearly as if it were yesterday. All of his servants were killed – the soldiers who were loyal to him, both man and orc alike; the stewards, advisors and chancellors who assisted him in ruling the kingdom; the clerks, treasurers and chroniclers who tended to the official records; the squires who assisted him in donning his robes of state and his battle armor; the chief cook and his staff of scullions; the cupbearers who brought him his wine and served him his dinners; the grooms that tended to the horses in the stables; the royal beekeeper who harvested the honey from the hives of the black-and-silver Morgul bees; the vintners and vignerons whose labors helped produce the famed Morgul Wine and other brews unique to the tiny kingdom; the musicians who entertained him with song and filled his hall with music; the bards who recounted days of yore in ancient lays and epic poems; the storytellers who helped him pass the long days of immortality with stories both long and short; the jesters who amused him with their ridiculous antics; the maidens who danced before him in diaphanous silks and fluttering veils; and the rest of the many servants who ensured that life in Minas Morgul ran smoothly and efficiently. Though he had not known many of them personally, the Morgul Lord grieved for all of them. It was his responsibility as king to protect the citizens of his kingdom, and he had failed. 

Still, though, the sadness and the regret he felt over their deaths did not compare to the grief he felt for his own family, who suffered greatly at the hands of Sauron's torturers before the stroke of the executioner's blade finally granted them the mercy of death. Bound by invisible chains of sorcery, the Witch-king was forced to stand there like Túrin Turambar before the gate of Nargothrond and watch helplessly as his wives, lovers, sons and daughters were beaten, tortured and mutilated. He could still remember the desperation in their pleading eyes and their expressions of horrified betrayal when he did not lift a hand to save them. The chains of sorcery that had paralyzed his body had rendered him mute, so he could neither offer them comfort nor bid them farewell in their dying moments. Yes, Gorthaur the Cruel indeed knew how to inflict pain.

For seventy-seven years, the Lord of Minas Morgul had denied himself the companionship of lovers and friends, remaining aloof and distant from his servants. Eschewing the company of mortals, he often wiled away his days in solitude, haunted by the many ghosts of his past. Sometimes he worried he was turning into Skri the Eighth Nazgûl, who suffered from such severe bouts of melancholy that he was often rendered immobile for weeks at a time. The Witch-king could not bear the agony of another horrific loss, and so he built up stone walls around his heart and fortified the gates. He avoided lasting entanglements and formal unions, preferring instead trysts and transient affairs. These brief liaisons allowed him to experience for a time the tender affections of a lover without the fear of incurring his Master's wrath. Though he left many a fair maid in tears, a broken heart was far better than a heart pierced by the sword. 

There were a few lovely companions of the night, however, with whom he was so infatuated that he threw caution aside to linger with them a while longer. One of his favorites was the wife of a certain prominent Gondorian nobleman, a raven-haired beauty who was as gentle and dainty as an elf-flower. Alas, she was in poor health, and both the Witch-king and the lady's husband were left bereft when she became ill and died a few years after the birth of her second son.

There had been other favorites over the years, but for the most part, the Witch-king shied away from such attachments. However, that spring, a chance encounter upon the road had introduced him to a fair maiden who had enchanted him with her simple charm and guileless ways. She had captured his attention upon the day he had ridden triumphantly into Rohan, for she had boldly looked up at him when all others had bowed their heads in fear. He admired her courage and curiosity, even though he suspected it was borne out of ignorance of who – and what - he was. Elfhild daughter of Eadbald – he had told her that he would remember her, and indeed he had. 

As the beast's great wings rhythmically beat up and down, lifting its massive body to soar on the air currents and then to sweep across the battle-ravished landscape of the Westfold, the Witch-king thought fondly of Elfhild of Rohan. The Rohirric girl intrigued him in a way he did not wholly understand, and he felt strangely drawn to her. She reminded him of someone he had once known, in a past so distant it seemed more like a half-remembered dream than reality, a past to which he longed to return even though it be filled with shattered aspirations and ruined hopes. Perhaps her sweet innocence reminded him of that world and the dim and faded memories of a fair maiden he had known long ago in a land that now lay beneath the sea. 

He regretted that he had not been able to free her from the slave coffle and take her with him on his journeys, but the battlefield was no place for fair maidens, especially when he was slaughtering their people. However, he did make arrangements to have her brought to Minas Morgul, where she would live in comfort and luxury while awaiting the return of her lord. Unfortunately, due to the Witch-king's paralyzing fear of his Master's wrath, the method which he would employ to see the girl to his city was quite convoluted and overly trusting upon the tender mercies of Fate. But what could he do? He was terrified of the dark fate that might befall Elfhild should she become entangled in the conflict between him and Sauron. If the war went poorly for Mordor, Sauron might become so enraged that He would order the execution of Angmar's household as punishment for his failure. Elfhild must remain a secret to the Master, and in order to assure that the Great Eye remained blissfully ignorant of her existence, the Witch-king would have to let the girl fend for herself... at least for a time.

On the evening of May 24th, the fateful day which the Witch-king had first met the Rohirric peasant maid, the Mordorian army had made camp near the Mering Stream. Retiring to his field tent, Angmar embarked upon the task of completing all necessary paperwork required of him, but he found that his thoughts kept returning to the sweet-faced peasant girl whom he had seen along the road. He forced himself to concentrate upon the task at hand, which was dictating to his chief scribe a lengthy battle report describing the army's march northward. When he was finished, the Witch-king dismissed his scribe and returned to his desk to pen a second missive in his own hand. This letter was addressed to Kalus, Seneschal of Minas Morgul, who ruled in the absence of the Morgul Lord.

A slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth as the Witch-king wrote rapidly, his pen racing over the parchment. Skri, the messenger of Mordor, was seated in a chair across from Angmar's field desk, waiting patiently for his lord to conclude his missives. Occasionally the King looked over at Skri, who could only guess at the contents of the intriguing letter. "Let him wonder!" Angmar chuckled to himself.

This missive advised the Seneschal that, by the end of June, a very important caravan would be passing Minas Morgul. When it was halted for the usual inspection and payment of tariffs and fees, he and his men were to seize a girl named Elfhild, the daughter of Eadbald of Grenefeld, and take her into the City. While a fair price in gold was to be paid for her, the slavers who were in charge of the caravan were to be persuaded that it would be in their best interest to state on the official records that the girl had died on the journey. Elfhild would be quickly forgotten, for who was there to remember her? The authorities would never know any difference, for the silence of the Southrons had been bought by gold and any slaves who saw what happened would be scattered throughout Nurn. The girl would be just another number in a forgotten record book stored away in some dust-covered cubbyhole in the archives of the Tower.

When he had finished, the Morgul Lord turned his piercing gaze upon Skri. "There, Shau, my correspondence is finished, and I entrust its delivery to you. You are to travel to Barad-dûr first and present the Master with my report. Upon your return journey, you will stop at Minas Morgul and deliver the second missive to Kalus. I have every confidence in your abilities to evade any attempt by the enemy to intercept the mail. Neither message must fall into the hands of the wrong people. There must be no failure!"

"Never will I disappoint you, my Captain." Skri bowed humbly as he rose to his feet and took the sacks from his lord's hands. "You can always depend upon Shau the Eighth." 

"I have every confidence in you, Shau." The Morgul Lord rose and gripped the lesser wraith by the shoulder as he looked into his eyes. "Indeed, every confidence."

Basking in his lord's praises, Skri bared his pearly white teeth in a mouth set in a habitual morbid grin. He whistled a jaunty old Rhûnian tune as he placed the two missives into his leather mail bag, which he would strap to the back of his beast's saddle. He bowed, and with a light step, he turned and sauntered past the guards at the entrance of the Captain's great tent. As Skri made his way to the great stake where his beast was tethered, his tattered, faded black cloak floated behind him like shadowy clouds over the moon. The torches dimmed and flickered as he passed by them, and the few mortal soldiers about that night trembled in bitter cold as they bowed low to the Nazgûl.

"Damn fool," the Witch-king had groused to himself at the time. "Why does he insist upon wearing the most motley of grave clothes when he could robe himself in the velvets and brocades befitting a king? He brings shame to our order by dressing like a common ghoul!" Angmar shrugged. "Eccentric he is, but as dependable as Death."

In the days to follow, the Witch-king was filled with much doubt concerning his letter to Lord Kalus. In all the missives that followed between the Morgul Lord and his Seneschal, Lord Kalus never once mentioned the letter concerning Elfhild. However, given the sensitive nature of the plan discussed within, the Witch-king had not requested that the Seneschal confirm receipt of the message. He knew that his orders would have reached Lord Kalus upon the very night he had written them, for after delivering the battle report to Barad-dur, Skri had been commanded to stop at Minas Morgul and deliver the scroll tube containing the missive into Lord Kalus' hands. Despite his odd habits and hideous taste in clothing, Skri was an excellent messenger, braving the elements to ensure that Mordor's mail was delivered in a timely manner. 

Long ago, the Dark Lord had devised an orderly system for the distribution of mail to His far-flung realm. Wishing for order in all things, He had stipulated that scroll tubes were to be placed in special pouches bearing the insignia of their destination. Those missives destined for the Dark Tower were put in a pouch made of black silk brocaded with images of the Great Eye in gold and red. Those bound for Dol Guldur were marked with the tower surrounded by a dark forest, and those for Minas Morgul bore the sigil of the Morgul Lord, a ghostly crescent moon in thread-of-silver. Other fortresses and outposts bore their own distinctive insignias. The system had worked successfully for many years with few mishaps ever occurring.

Still Angmar wondered if his plan to obtain the slave girl without his Master's knowledge was a sound one. It would be a month ere the slave caravan arrived at Minas Morgul, an entire month in which anything could happen. What if Elfhild's captors should treat her cruelly? He sensed that she was one to challenge rules and spirited slaves often had that trait beaten out of them. Military directives prevented the soldiers from harming the captives while they transported them to Minas Tirith, but the guards were, after all, Khandian cavalrymen and orcs. One faction was little better than the other, in Angmar's opinion. After all, Khamûl was a Khandian...

Once the caravan arrived in Minas Tirith, the captives would be turned over to Esarhaddon uHuzziya, a slave trader with the House of Huzziya. The Morgul Lord had dealt with the slave trader before, and he knew that the Southron loved gold above all else, prizing it more highly even than honor, prestige or women. Esarhaddon would be given an appropriate sum for Elfhild when the caravan passed by Minas Morgul, more than enough to pay for the girl and ensure the slaver's silence about the matter. 

But Angmar still wondered about the prudence of his plan. What sort of man was he to leave Elfhild to the mercies of her captors and assume that she would even reach Minas Morgul alive? He cursed his own cowardice. The girl was a slave, by rights his to command. He should have ordered his men to bring her to his tent the moment he first saw her. After all, Khamûl often took liberties with captive women and was known for bringing his mistresses with him on campaign. But while Khamûl was well-favored by Sauron, Angmar had the misfortune of being His favorite, forever under the scrutinizing gaze of the Great Eye, forever being suffocated by his Master's clinging affections and unreasonable demands. What a bitter irony was the Witch-king's life; he was the second most important man in all of Mordor, but yet he lived his days in fear. And so Angmar felt that he had no choice but to pretend that Elfhild did not exist and trust to Fate that she would arrive safely at his city by late June.

Unfortunately, he would soon discover that Elfhild herself had sabotaged his plans by escaping. On June 18, the Witch-king had learned from Skri that there had been a slave mutiny at Osgiliath the previous evening. When all was quiet in the camp that night, the Nazgûl Lord decided to fly east and see how many slaves remained at large, and if, by chance, Elfhild was one of the ones who had rebelled. It seemed that most of the slaves had been recaptured, but he discovered two that were not. The scent of one was familiar, and veiling himself in a cloak of darkness, he had dropped down to investigate. He had sent the beast away to hunt while he pursued a different sort of game.

When he had found Elfhild and a companion sleeping along the shores of the Anduin, he had approached stealthily and spied upon them as they slumbered. He was amazed to discover that both girls were identical in appearance. So Elfhild had a twin sister! Where had the second girl been that day when he had first met Elfhild? Then he remembered the cowering maid who had knelt beside Elfhild, but she had seemed just another one of many kneeling Rohirric captives. He wondered how similar the two girls were in personality and temperament, or if their appearance was the only common trait they shared. He suspected that Elfhild was the braver – and perhaps more foolhardy – of the pair. As the night went on, Angmar would learn that this was indeed true, for Elfhild attempted to bludgeon in his face with a rock. The whole situation was an unfortunate misunderstanding on Elfhild's part, but he quickly clarified the matter... as well as cured her of a near-fatal case of Black Shadow. Ah, the women of Rohan! Fey they were, and filled with suicidal bloodlust, but charming nonetheless. 

Now, the escape complicated things slightly, but Angmar doubted that Elfhild and her sister would remain at large for long. From the lofty perch of the fell beast's back, he had seen the search parties which scoured the landscape, searching for escaped slaves. The trackers were not far from the twins' location, and it would not be long until the girls were recaptured. What chance did they have of escaping for good? A vast wasteland lay between them and Rohan, and there was nothing in the devastated countryside for them to eat, nowhere to go and no one to help them. They might even become so desperate that they would willingly give themselves up to beg for food. After talking with her, he deemed that Elffled would be the first to surrender, for he sensed that she had given up hope in the West and was starting to turn to Mordor for salvation. He knew that Elfhild would follow her, for she was not the type to forsake her sister for her own cause.

The Witch-king thought about capturing both sisters right then and there and taking them with him upon his journeys. Once again, though, he quailed at the memories of his Master's wrath. Only four days before, Mordor had been met with defeat at the Second Battle of Helm's Deep on June 14th, and Sauron was highly displeased at this sudden turn of events. Deep in his heart, the Witch-king wondered if the Powers were trying to sabotage the Master's plans to conquer all of Middle-earth. There had been too many close calls and coincidences for Angmar's comfort. Yet he feared that Sauron would blame him for any and all defeats, and then turn His rage upon the citizens of Minas Morgul. If that happened, the twins would be safer in an orc den than they would be in the city of the wraiths. Perhaps it was a stroke of good fortune that Elfhild and her sister managed to escape, for this would create a delay in their arrival at Minas Morgul. Perhaps in that brief time he could assuage some of his Master's rage and purchase clemency for the people of Minas Morgul through simpering and groveling.

When the search parties of the slavers caught up with Elfhild and Elffled, the girls would be recaptured and taken back to the slave caravan, where they would resume the eastward journey into Mordor. Angmar knew that Esarhaddon uHuzziya would be enraged about the rebellion, but he also knew that the slaver would be hesitant to dole out harsh punishments upon the recalcitrant slaves. Very few men would deplete their coffers of gold to purchase a scarred, mutilated slave for their harems, and Esarhaddon desired gold far more than he did vengeance or justice. Still, though, Angmar had no surety that Elfhild and her sister would be spared the whip, and he felt a pang of guilt and anger at the thought of the girls suffering at the hands of the slavers. He would do what he could to protect them from afar, but he could not openly be their protector or aid them in any way. When he was reunited with them at Minas Morgul, he would listen to their accounts of their journey and punish any who had dared lay a hand on them. Retribution would be delayed, but still it would come, silent and unexpected as the cold, grim spectre of Death in the night.

Now he must concentrate upon the war that he was losing, and when the wretched business was over, he could look forward to returning to Minas Morgul and learning more about Elfhild and her sister. As the soft light of dawn turned the morning skies into pale gold, the Witch-king saw the outlines of the military encampment far ahead. Laughing as the beast began to drop towards the ground, he congratulated himself upon his plan to acquire the Rohirric girl. Perhaps this time he would finally outwit Sauron and enjoy all the pleasures of home and hearth once again.


	32. The Wide Blue Sea

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

How long he lay in a stupor beneath the spreading branches of the pine, Neithan was unsure, but when he awoke from his fit, it seemed that his mind was clearer. These episodes often ended the same way that they had begun. Lhûnwen, ever gentle and gracious, would walk out of his memories and into the present. She never accused or mocked him the way that others did, the way Hallas and Vorondil ridiculed him. Their cold, condemning eyes were always damning him to eternal perdition. Perhaps they had the right, and for that matter, so did Lhûnwen. But when she came to him, her eyes were languid and tender. Neithan felt the rage coming back over him. Why was it that wherever Lhûnwen was, there was sure to be the cockscomb Hallas, and always beside him, the arch judge and tormentor, Captain Vorondil?

He wondered why he could no longer see any of them at the present moment, but, perhaps such spirits kept appointments of their own, and no mortal had the right to question them. Who was he to challenge their comings and goings? He was alive and they were...? The Disembodied... the Elevated... yes, Elevated was the correct designation for those in their state. The thought that they might inhabit a parallel, unseen world that existed right beside the visible world was an intriguing one, for he knew that at whatever moment they chose, they could step out of the portal that divided the planes and appear right beside him. Just as suddenly and as mysteriously, they could draw the curtain aside and retreat back into that world to which he could not enter.

He was having trouble recalling just what it was that had disturbed him to such an extent that he had suffered another... episode. He could remember a wedding, but whose was it? Piecing together what had gone before sometimes required great deliberation... He was sure that the festivities had begun at twilight the night before... that was when the Midsummer bonfires burst into flame. The betrothed couple was feted and toasted, and the whole clan had made merry. He had sat at the high table... Everything was beginning to come back to him now, and a smile grew over Neithan's face, illuminating his dark eyes with the strange lucidity which comes with mania. He had been hesitant to offer a toast to a couple who belonged to a tribe whose declining numbers made their extinction upon Middle-earth almost a certainty. Still, good manners had compelled him to raise the cup in their honor.

When he had held the vessel aloft, he heard her silvery laugh and felt her gentle touch on his elbow. She pulled his head down to whisper promises in his ear, her voice tenderly beseeching him to follow. What could he do except honor her requests? The toast completed, he had left the table, believing that he heard her siren song weaving its way in and out of the wind. His staunch friend, the chieftain of the Wild Men, had halted him, pleading with him not to answer her call, but Neithan brushed him aside. He questioned whether the little man was ever really his friend. Perhaps he, too, had turned against him and was like all the rest, prying in his affairs and plotting against him. Why did good friendships always have to sour?

No, no - what was he thinking? The people of Druadan Forest had been friends to him for well on to ten years. He would not let his mind become cloudy again, his thinking fuzzy. If only he had a stout draught of ale, the drink would make his agonizing headache go away and drive the serpents from his brain.

Oh, they were there all right! Thousands of them! Coiling and twisting through the pulp of his brain, tunneling and mating and laying their eggs! Then when their spawn hatched and broke through the eggshells in the mush of his mind, he could smell the stench of putrefaction in his nostrils, taste it in his mouth, feel it oozing through his brain! No one knew about the serpent nests but Neithan himself. He could tell no one about them! He guarded that secret, knowing that if anyone found out, they would only lie about him and call him stark, raving mad, and he was not mad!

"I am not mad! No!" he told the tree, emphasizing the point by pounding his fist into the bark until his skin sloughed off, bleeding. No one had the mind or the comprehension to understand that he saw things which others did not! He put his bloodied hand to his skull and tried to feel the vibrations of the reptiles as they crawled through his head, but they were quiescent now, unmoving. Perhaps they were lying in wait... but no, he remembered now... Lhûnwen, who could gentle even the fieriest wild beast, had settled and soothed them and put them to rest in the cluttered passages of his mind.

Was that her face staring out at him from the blood-streaked bark? "Lhûnwen?" he whispered as he raised his hand and touched her image with his bleeding fingers. But why did she look so solemn? Playfully, he outlined the rounded contours of her face, rouging her cheeks and highlighting her mouth with the dripping blood. He peered closer at her face, rubbing over the surface with his hand. Closing his eyes, he remembered her when she was still alive. When he looked back at the tree, Lhûnwen's face had disappeared. Where had she said she was going? Furrowing up his brows, he pondered upon the question. Yes! He now remembered. What a strange spot that she had chosen for a trysting place.

She was testing him! Testing him, the same way that she had often tested him when her heart had been beating and alive, before the blood had stilled in her veins, before she had been laid in the tomb. "Never doubt me, Neithan... never, my darling, for I shall always prove true. Follow me, and this time I will allow you to taste the nectars that I once forbade you."

"Yes, yes," he whispered hoarsely. Lhûnwen! Ever the temptress and the innocent, two polar opposites oddly manifesting themselves in the same person. Sugar and spice, poppy and hemlock, honey and serpent's bane. He would trade his soul, his very right to the afterlife for one night cleaving to her breasts. If he should be slain as his mortal flesh drove into the chillness of her icy cave, he would count it but a cheap price to pay.

"Kiss me," he begged. "Take my lips in yours and suck my tongue, my heart, my blood, my being into your soul! Strip me of life; consume me and make me a part of you!"

Caressing the bark with his lips and hands, Neithan felt a tickling in his right ear. Moving his head to the side, he watched unalarmed as the head of a serpent peaked out of the chamber of his ear and turned to gaze at him from a set of beady amber eyes. Coil upon coil of mottled brown and yellow scales, greased from the wax in his ear, slowly slithered down his arm and began to wind around the trunk of the tree. He watched in fascination as the reptile climbed higher until its shape was lost among the branching limbs. With the cessation of the hallucination, now not even a trace of Lhûnwen's face remained engraved upon the trunk. 

He looked upon the rough surface in consternation. Then, shaking his long, dark hair, he mocked himself. "How absurd! You are kissing a tree, you damn fool."

After the departure of the serpent, his head no longer throbbed and pounded. The mists and vapors which had haunted his mind for the past few hours had blown away, dissipating with the dark of night. Then, turning his back on the tree and his madness for the time, he walked eastward through the Stonewain Valley, whistling as he ambled along in the first faint light of the dawn.

***

Warming his back by the bright blaze that had newly been built in the open fire pit, Fritha watched as Fródwine, carrying a basket of apples, came inside the house. Following behind him through the open door were the servant girl and Frumgár, struggling to carry a heavily laden basket of apples between them.

The autumn had come, and the vibrant aroma of apples mingled with the acrid smell of the smoke which rose slowly in a column to the vent in the peak of the roof. Today his mother and the servant girl would core and peel the ripe red apples in preparation for drying them for winter. His brothers, being older and taller, would drape the full strands of apples across the wooden pegs in the rafters. Chewing upon crunchy pieces of flavorful fruit, he watched as the deft fingers of the women sliced the apples into large earthenware bowls before stringing thread through the pieces.

"Let me help! Can I hang them on the rafters for you?" Fritha begged.

"No, little brother, you are far too short. Wait a few years," Fródwine rebuffed him with a laugh. As the servant girl handed Fródwine a long piece of thread laced with strung apples, she smiled shyly at him. Though his neck and face flushed ruddy with embarrassment, Fródwine pretended not to notice the pretty girl's attention. After quickly attaching the two ends of the thread to pegs in the ceiling beams, he reached for another strand from her outstretched hand.

"Here, Fritha, you can hand them to me as I tie the strings on the beams." Standing on a stool under one of the long rafters, Frumgár smiled down encouragingly at his little brother.

"No, I want to do it by myself!" Being denied what he considered his rightful place as center of attention, Fritha was on the verge of pouting. "I will fetch another stool and then I will be tall enough!"

"No, you will not... Only if you grow another foot or two," Frumgár giggled in good natured amusement.

"Go out and play, little brother. You are only in the way here," Fródwine smirked at him, until their mother rebuked her elder son with a disapproving stare.

Everyone in the room was staring at Fritha. This was not the kind of attention that he wanted! He could not help it when he felt tears spring up in his eyes, or when his lower lip began to tremble.

"Crybaby!" he heard Fródwine's derisive exclamation. "Only little girls cry!"

Struggling to control the urge to cry, Fritha stomped out the open doorway. He called to the hound that lay sleeping at the stoop and walked away into the woods, where he sat down upon a stump. He was tired of being picked on by the bullying Fródwine, who always seemed to have something hateful to say about him. He thought about running away and taking the loyal dog with him. Who knows what adventures they could have? Maybe they could fight dragons or find treasure. Until he could make up his mind on this important matter, he sat on the stump and sulked. The dog lay comfortably at his feet and looked up at him with trusting eyes. Fritha blinked back tears of frustration and anger.

"Wake up, lad, wake up!" He felt a large hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly. "What are you doing down here?"

Fritha looked around him in confusion. Why, only a moment before when he had blinked, it had been clear daylight, but now the stars were burning brightly in the heavens! In that split second that it took for his eyes to close, he must have fallen asleep! And where was the hound? Reaching down at his feet, he found that the animal was no longer there. Even his beloved pet had deserted him!

Fritha couldn't see the man's face clearly for it was in the shadows, but he was sure that he did not know him, whoever he might be. Fritha was not even sure where he was. Everything seemed strange and unknown, as though he had been walking in his sleep and woke up, lost and alone.

"Why - why, sir, I really do not know." Fritha answered honestly as he looked questioningly up at the darkened figure. "Where is my dog? He was with me when I sat down to rest."

"Dog? There was no dog with you when I found you." The man seemed puzzled about something. Perhaps he, too, was lost and could not find his way.

"Maybe he got scared and ran away," Fritha mused out loud.

"Well, I do not know about any dog, but you cannot stay down here! When they start burning the fires, your flesh will melt off and nothing will be left of you but your bones! Get up, lad, get up!" The man reached a hand down and hurriedly pulled the small boy to his feet.

"Certainly, sir! I surely do not want to be burnt up." Fritha scratched his head and looked around. "Where am I?"

"Hmmm," the man seemed thoughtful, "you are about mid-level. The workmen have already piled up three layers of limestone, and the wood to burn it between the layers. Soon the stoker and his assistants will be here to light the fires. They will be working another long night, I wager. We have to get out of here before they torch the wood or we will be incinerated!"

"Really, sir? What is this place?"

"Why, lad, you mean you do not know that this is the Nimgil Lime Kiln!"

Fritha blinked his eyes. "I neither know what the word means or what a lime kiln is." A confused look came over Fritha's face. "Why can I understand you, sir? I do not know much Westron."

The man shook his shaggy black mane. "Sorry, boy, I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh," Fritha shrugged, at a loss for what to say. "How did I get here?"

"My guess is you fell down here the same as I did, but I am going to take you out of here." The man looked down at Fritha and took the little boy's hand in his. "You need to come with me." Fritha eyed him questioningly, but the stranger's voice was kind, and Fritha followed him as he led him through a long, dark tunnel.

"You fell, sir? You mean tonight?"

"Why, no, boy, it was back in late winter! You know that is the time when they burn great quantities of stone. They process it into lime for spreading on the fields during the coming spring. The night was bitterly cold then," the man shivered, "and I climbed up to the top because of the generous heat of the fires. Being a vagabond, I planned to enjoy the warmth of the kiln before wandering on in the morning. I must admit that I drank liberally of the full flask of wine that I had with me, for I needed its fire to keep me warm as much as I needed the heat of the oven. Perhaps it was the fumes, or perhaps I drank too much... Whatever it was, son," he laughed grimly and patted Fritha's shoulder, "I am still here. Now, come along, we have a long way to go before we come to the end of the journey."

"Sir, I still do not know where we are going." Fritha looked up in uncertainty at the man.

"You do not?" The man looked confused. "Right up ahead you can see the dawn sun shining through the entrance. I will stay with you a while, though, before I have to leave you." 

In the light of early dawn, Fritha could see the man clearly. He was a woe-begotten looking fellow, a little past middle aged. His hair was tangled and greasy, his beard ill-kept and thinning in places. He was dressed in tattered, rumpled clothing. He beheld the world through tired eyes set beneath bushy eyebrows which were furrowed in a perpetual expression of weariness. His forehead was wide and broad, etched with lines of worry, and the corners of his lips tilted downwards, reflecting the sadness of his unfortunate life.

The man and the boy passed through the wide opening of the passageway, and Fritha could see that they were on the crest of a gentle hill. Beyond them a pathway ambled through a sun-dappled grove of trees. Dainty violets and yellow buttercups lined the path that wound lazily down the slope. 

"Sir, are you taking me home?" Fritha asked uncertainly as he looked up at the man. The man was silent for a few moments and waited as Fritha bent down and picked a bouquet of the spring blossoms. "I surely would like to go home more than almost anything, but... most of all, I want to see my mother. I picked this bouquet of flowers in case we should chance to meet her on this path. My brother, Fródwine, says that she will soon be catching up with us, but she has not yet. I do not know what to think anymore," he murmured sadly.

"Well, I do not know about that, lad. I have never had the pleasure of meeting either your mother or your brother, but since they are related to you, I know they must be fine, upstanding people. Now come along, lad; we must hurry."

Fritha worked his small fingers between the man's much larger ones and held his hand tightly. "I do not know, sir, if you would think Fródwine was such a fine fellow if you met him, for he is a great bully and is often mean and spiteful to my brother Frumgár and me."

"I do not know about that, either," the man muttered as he scratched his scraggly beard.

"Sir, could you tell me some more about the lime kiln; I have never heard of any such thing before, and I concluded, perhaps, that there are none to be found in the Mark."

The man sighed. "There is not much to tell about them, son. There are limestone quarries back in the White Mountains. When the workmen have heaped up a load of lime upon the wagon, they drive their teams of oxen to the kiln. Then, if the oven is not full, they dump a load down the chimney shafts. Then the great fires are lit, for the lime must be cooked at a terribly high temperature. After the lime is burnt down, it is taken from the bottom of the oven, but it is still infernally hot. The fumes which exude from it are harsh and caustic and can burn up a man's throat and lungs. After it cools, the powered lime is removed from the bottom, loaded onto wagons, and taken to the fields by the farmers.

"'Tis a harsh and dangerous work, my boy." The man shook his head. "Sometimes when the drivers are hauling the lime, the material will start to slake and cause the wagons to burn. Then it is truly a deadly work, for when the lime heats up, the vapors are scalding and the fumes can cause men to smother to death!"

"Oh, sir, that sounds dreadful!" Fritha's eyes went wide at the thought of such a grueling and hazardous chore, and he tightened his hold on the man's hand. 

"'Tis a brutal work for both man and best," the tired-faced man agreed, "but when there is work to be done and money to be earned, a man must do whatever is at hand to put food on the table and feed his children."

They came to the bottom of the hill. There, the forest fell away to a vast clearing. Before them was a great, wide green plain dotted by wildflowers. Far away in the distance, Fritha saw a great expanse of blue with sunlight shimmering upon the water in a glorious glow.

"What is that, sir, up ahead?" Fritha asked excitedly. "Is it a lake? I never saw so much water!"

"I suppose you could say it is like a lake, but it is much larger than that. That is the Great Sea." Halting, the man looked down to Fritha. "Would you like to board a ship and sail across it? You can if you want, you know."

Fritha's eyes, blue as the sea, were wide with wonder. "A ship, sir? Never have I been upon one! But I have a strange notion, though... I am not quite certain what it is, but I have the feeling that my father is waiting for me on the other side of that sea. Is that true, sir?"

"Son, I would not be surprised if what you say is true. Would you like to go see him?" The deep lines of worry that lined the man's face relaxed slightly as his weary slate colored eyes looked out over the water.

Fritha wrinkled his eyebrows up, looking first at the sea and then at the man beside him. "Why, sir, I surely would!" he exclaimed. "But I cannot do that today. My mother is somewhere back there and will soon be here, searching for my brothers and me."

"The decision is yours, boy, but I made mine long ago. I will leave you here and you can decide what you want to do - sail across that grand open sea of blue or go back with me. Choose now, for one way or the other, I must be going."

Far across the great, vast distance, the seagulls circled and called over a calm and placid sea. As Fritha gazed down at the flowers, he thought a long moment before turning back to look at the man.

"I will think about it, sir," he smiled.


	33. The Threat that Waits

Chapter Written by Angmar

The headman, Ghân-buri-Ghân, his face as wrinkled and gnarled as an old tree, and his expression just as inscrutable, leaned forward, resting his forearms upon his thighs as he squatted on his heels. Gathered in a circle around him in the night-drenched clearing were fifty tribesmen of the clan of Drûg, all sitting just as impassively and silently as their leader.

His dark eyes turned imperceptibly towards the east. "The moon sleeps; the sun has not yet awakened. The birds make their sleepy early morning talk, boasting to one another that they were the first of their kind to have courage to return after the darkness." A small smile on the old man's face, he mused upon the creatures stirring under the earth that would provide food for the songsters. Turning back to his men, his deep voice proclaimed, "Speak now!" 

"Chieftain, we have brought strong ropes to bind the madman. After we have captured him, he will not break through these fetters, no matter how fiercely he might struggle," came the monotonal pronouncement of a man who sat to the right of the leader. Drughân, nephew to the chieftain and second in command, had just that Midsummer Eve pledged his betrothal vows to Ghinga, one of the fairest maids in the tribe.

Her brideprice was exorbitantly high, but Drughân considered that she was worth every bit of it. Since she was almost as strong as a man and her hips were extraordinarily wide, her body promised that she might be able to bear him at least one child... if she were willing. Willingness was a very important thing to consider when choosing a wife, for the placid Drûg men seldom forced their women. Even if he could not win her favors with gifts, he consoled himself that since she was of a cheerful nature, she would at least make him a good companion. Perhaps if his gifts pleased her enough, in time she might consent to share his bed.

When her father had first set the brideprice, Drughân shook his head and walked away in silence. After thinking about the matter for almost a month, he reconsidered and went back to Ghinga's sire. The hopeful swain explained that if he were given enough time, he would craft the gifts necessary to buy the bride. Long hours had he labored in his workshop fashioning the earthenware jugs, pots, pitchers, cups, and other vessels, and then painting them with bright colors. Knowing his prospective father-in-law's love of music and dance, Drûghan's most splendid gift of all had been a harp whose frame had been carved with tribal designs and embellished with paint. 

The headman nodded, his impassive, flat face showing little emotion, but his voice was sad. "It will take the stoutest of ropes to bind him, for when he is possessed by the evil spirits who haunt him, his strength is quadrupled. Nothing can hold him then!"

"Aye," agreed Guri, third in command. "Never in all the ten years that I have known him have I seen the evil spirits vex him so fiercely as they have this night of Midsummer Eve!"

"Truly, I am grieved." Ghân bowed his head in sorrow, his thick lips mumbling a quiet incantation. "It is my hope that after he has been given the powerful healing tea, that he will recover as he has done in the past, and we may let him return to his hut in the mountains."

The tribesmen concurred with nods of their heads or low, guttural murmurs of affirmation. All hoped that they could find Neithan the Mad before he did himself irreparable damage, or perhaps took his own life.

"Take care not to harm him, for he is a friend of the Drûghu. Unless he becomes so violent that a man's life is in danger, do not use the blow pipes to fire darts that would bring sleep upon him! First I will try to reason with him before anything is done, so do not advance upon him threateningly. Now let us go!" Though his legs were thick and short, they made the chieftain no less agile. Springing to his feet, he led his men quickly away at a trot into the forest.

***

"Fródwine, when will you admit that it is hopeless?" a thoroughly demoralized Frumgár mumbled through trembling lips. "We must have been digging for two hours now, and we have cleared no more than two feet of this passage."

"We need shovels and mattocks to clear it, not our hands! Here, take this stone outside and add it to the rest of the pile," came the determined voice of Fródwine as he dislodged another large chunk of limestone with his knife. Picking up the heavy stone, Frumgár sighed, turned and made his way to the outside.

"Hurry back! This next rock will not be so difficult to dig out as the other one," Fródwine admonished him.

Frumgár soon returned from carrying his burden to the growing pile of rubble that the boys had cleared out from the passage. "Perhaps we should have tried reaching him through the top. How do we know that we are any closer this way than we are the other?"

"'Twill be dawn soon, and I intend to go up on top to see what might be facing us there. I fear, though, that the ground is far too unsteady to permit me to climb down into the pit, but should I find that route to be safe, I will try to find our brother by that way. It is far too risky to chance that perilous well without even moonlight to guide us," Fródwine pronounced solemnly.

"Fródwine," Frumgár hesitated to speak, "I was foolish earlier when I said that everything was hopeless. I did not mean that! It is just that I blame myself so much for what happened that it has saddened me more than I can bear! Whenever I think of Fritha lying dead and cold, crushed beneath mud and stone, the scene sticks in my mind and will not leave!"

Fródwine stood and stretched his back and shoulder muscles, cramped from crouching so long at his grim work. "Brother," he gently put his hand on Frumgár's shoulder, "do not let such doubts enter your mind! If you keep thinking like that, you cannot do him or yourself any good!"

His lips quivering, his bleary eyes red from weeping, Frumgár rubbed his finger under his damp nose and looked to his brother. "You never have thoughts like mine, do you, Fródwine?"

"Mine are dark enough," he muttered and turned back to his onerous task, leaving a puzzled Frumgár to contemplate his words.

Fródwine, with his greater strength, did the bulk of the work in clearing and enlarging the passageway. Using his fingers to guide him in the darkness, he slid his knife between jammed rocks until he dislodged another mass of limestone. Then, handing the piece to his brother to take to the pile of rocks outside the kiln, he would set to work at digging out another. The only sounds in the grim chamber were the scraping of a knife blade against rock and Fródwine's grunts as he struggled to move the stones. 

Captives of their own melancholy thoughts, the two boys worked in silence. Frumgár had just returned from the outside of the chamber when his excited whisper interrupted the quiet. "When I was outside just now, I could have sworn that I saw something moving!"

"Where?"

"Off in that little grove of trees towards the south."

"Frumgár, you are always seeing things. It was probably only a deer," Fródwine muttered skeptically as he strained to dislodge a large stone from the mouth of the blocked tunnel. 

"Fródwine, I can tell the shape of a deer's body from that of a man or orc! This creature was standing erect, like a man or an orc, and I fear it is an orc. What are we going to do?" he asked nervously.

"Maybe it was a deserter or a scout from that enemy patrol that we saw on the road, but that seems unlikely. Still..." his voice was a low hiss. Slowly, he turned about. Slipping his knife under his belt, Fródwine reached down, groping for the spear that lay close beside him on the floor. "Behind me, little brother, and not a word! It is probably just an animal which has smelled our food, but in case it is not, let us be ready for it!"

"There, do you hear it?" came Frumgár's frantic exclamation. "Something is moving around outside, and it is panting so loud I can hear it!"

"Aye," came Fródwine's soft reply, "and I do not like the sound of it."

Fródwine had become instantly alert, every sense heightened, every nerve tingling with danger. Though the lump in his throat seemed to be strangling him, he almost welcomed this opportunity to show his courage, to prove to himself that he was at last grown to manhood. His ambition had always been to ride a fine destrier into battle with the Rohirrim. Perhaps now he would never have an opportunity for that and would instead die a lonely death in this wretched, dismal hole, but at least he would die in honor. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and gripped his spear, preparing to rush forward and thrust the sharp stick into the soft belly of the intruder.

Moving aside for his brother, Frumgár picked up a jagged piece of broken limestone. His heart hammering in his chest, he was so frightened that he could not control his shaking hand. However, when he looked to his older brother who was standing so steady and resolute, he took heart, tightening his grip on the rock to control his trembling fingers.

"Steady, Frumgár," Fródwine's voice was barely a whisper. Fearing that a patrol of orcs might rush into the tunnel at any moment, the boys waited in silence, each one struggling with his own tumultuous thoughts. Frumgár was more terrified than he had ever been in his life, while Fródwine was stoic. As the wait dragged on interminably, Frumgár squirmed restlessly, his skin feeling as though it were covered with crawling insects. If he were not able to control his fears, he knew that he would soon fill his breeches.

Then the harsh breathing slowly faded, growing fainter and fainter, as heavy footsteps shambled away into the darkness.

"The thing is gone! The thing is gone, Fródwine," Frumgár slowly exhaled his pent up breath and leaned against the side of the tunnel for support. His head was swimming and he felt dizzy from the fear and tension.

"Not so quickly, little brother! We will wait here a little longer. The day is almost upon us, and we can see better in the light. I will watch while you dig." Although Fródwine was impatient to get back to the work of clearing and enlarging the tunnel, he decided that he should guard the entrance until all threat of danger had passed. Then, turning the knife over to Frumgár, he stationed himself as guard near the entry while the other brother worked. Perhaps his spear would spill blood before the day had dawned.

***

Hallas and Vorondil had taken counsel and were plotting against him again. The moment that he had heard their voices coming from the old lime kiln, he had perceived their latest perfidy. Though they were cunning, he knew their games. They were trying to turn Lhûnwen against him! That had been Hallas' intent from the very beginning, and later he had persuaded Vorondil to aid him in the conspiracy.

Skirting around the ruins, Neithan climbed up the slope to the top of the old structure. Assuming a vantage point near the edge of the roof, he would have an excellent view of the surrounding territory when the sun rose. In front of him lay a rolling, denuded hollow that faced another spur of the ridge to the south. The treacherous scoundrels would not be able to see him when they finally ventured out of their hole, but he would have a clear view of their backs. If only he had a bow and a quiver full of arrows! Then he could kill them both... but they were already dead. He wondered for a moment if an arrow would pass right through their ethereal forms. Certainly the darts could not connect with any flesh, because their bodies had long been entombed! Could they still feel pain? He hoped so, because they had caused him so much suffering over the years.

It did not matter. He would kill them anyway, if it were only a symbolic act conducted to appease his rage. He would wait until they departed from their secret conclave, and then he would be ready for them. He could barely contain the excitement that coursed through his veins like battle fury. Though it was cool, he was perspiring profusely, the sweat glistening on his forehead and dripping into his eyes, irritating the nervous jerking twitch under his left eye. His armpits were soaked, as were his chest and back, and he could feel the sweat running down the groove of his buttocks and saturating his breeches.

His breathing coming hard and heavy, he clenched and unclenched his raw and bleeding fists, his fingers trembling. He stomped his foot, attempting to assuage the wild urge to enter their hiding place, to charge towards the villains in spite of the encompassing darkness. No, he must wait, wait until they came out, and then he would spring, but until then, his body quivered as though there were a lightning storm raging inside him.


	34. An Unexpected Enemy

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Day is almost upon us, and we still have not been able to reach Fritha," Fródwine pronounced gloomily as he peered through the opening of the murky tunnel. The landscape outside had begun to take on the faint golden tinge of early dawn. "Come, Frumgár, let us go to the top of this accursed doomsday hole and see if we can learn the fate of our brother." He did not hold much hope that the little boy was still alive, but he did not let Frumgár see his doubts.

"Aye, Fródwine," Frumgár murmured as he stood to his feet and handed over the knife to his grim-faced brother, who thrust it under his belt. Taking another look back at the darkness of the collapsed shaft, the two boys ventured out into the open and stood, squinting, as their eyes adjusted to the dawning light.

"Hail, Hallas! Ho Vorondil!" boomed a powerful voice from far above them. The unexpected greeting took the boys by surprise, and they froze to the spot like frightened animals. "Turn around so that I may see your faces once again!" the stranger shouted.

Frumgár whispered frantically to Fródwine, "By Helm's bones! Who is that? What does he want?"

"Some damn fool," Fródwine hissed as the two boys slowly turned around and looked up at the top of the lime kiln. There they saw a tall man whose shaggy hair was unkept and whose gray eyes were gleaming with a mad fire. The man held a sword raised high above his head and was swinging it about wildly. 

Fródwine's mind was reeling in disbelief at what he was seeing. This was no orc! But who was this man and from whence did he come? Was he a deserter from the Mordorian army who was hiding in these wild and remote lands far from any village? Perhaps he was a Gondorian who had been taken captive and had escaped from the enemy host. Whoever he might be, he appeared to be very dangerous.

"Please, Fródwine!" Frumgár pled desperately. "Let us flee from this madman!" 

"He is between us and our brother! I will not run, but you go now as fast as your legs can carry you!"

"No, I will not leave you ever!" Frumgár insisted, on the verge of tears. "We are brothers!"

"You will only be in my way! Run before he wanders down here in his madness!"

Frumgár stole a sideways glance at his brother. "I will go, but I shall try to double back around the hill and get behind him on the slope!" 

"No," Fródwine whispered. "That is utterly foolish! What could you do anyway? Just hide somewhere. Obviously, the man does not have a bow, or he would have used it by now. I will see what he wants and try to persuade him to leave. Now go!"

Turning, Frumgár raced away on shaking legs. Above him, he heard a shout that chilled his soul.

"Flee, Hallas, you coward! I expected you to run!"

Fródwine had heard about people who had lost their reason, and from all he had gathered, he knew that it was best not to provoke them. He leaned casually against his makeshift spear as though it were a walking stick, so as not to cause the strange man to feel threatened. "Sir," he called out, his voice as calm as he could make it, "you are mistaken. There is no one here by the name of Hallas or Vorondil."

"No, of course not!" came the reply. "Like the coward that he is, Hallas has abandoned you to your fate!"

"Sir, let me explain. I am Fródwine son of Fasthelm, and the other boy is my brother, Frumgár. We have never heard of anyone called Hallas or Vorondil."

"Do not try to deceive me! I know who you are! You are Captain Vorondil. Once I respected you, but you keep poor company of late - Hallas, the lying traitor!"

"No, sir," Fródwine shook his head. "I am no captain of anything, only a boy." The dawn was growing stronger, the sun coming over the hills, and the man stood with his back to the light, making it impossible for Fródwine to see his shadowed face. His voice, though, conveyed the man's mood, which Fródwine heard as a cold, angry fury.

"Come up here where I can see you better, and no tricks!"

"Sir," Fródwine replied politely, "why should I come up there? You hold a sword, and perhaps you mean to use it! I feel much safer down here, and why is it necessary for you to see me?"

"Vorondil!" the man shouted. "I must behold your face so that I can determine if you are telling the truth!"

"The truth about what, sir?" Fródwine asked cautiously. "I do not understand."

"Vorondil, do not pretend that you do not know what I am talking about. You were never a good liar. Do not attempt the vice now."

"Sir, I am not lying. I honestly do not understand what you mean."

"I want to believe you. I always did, you know, but how could I? You were in league with Hallas. Why did you turn against me?" A slight twinge of uncertainty had entered the man's voice. "We were always friends, you know, you and I."

Fródwine was an intelligent boy. He had to convince this demented man that he was not Vorondil, but was that really the best way to approach him? Perhaps it would be better to go along with his delusions. He might be able to gain his confidence that way. Whatever he did, Fródwine knew that he must do something and do it quickly. As things stood now, it was not safe either to go back to digging in the tunnel or to climb to the roof and try to reach Fritha that way. The man called him "captain." Perhaps he saw Fródwine as a superior officer. Maybe Fródwine could use the man's delusions to his advantage. Of course, there was always the possibility that this man once held a higher rank than captain, but Fródwine would have to take that chance.

"If I come up there, will you put away your sword and swear upon the memory of our friendship not to raise it against me?" Fródwine offered as a compromise, hoping the madman would believe his ruse.

"Aye, Captain Vorondil. I will agree to that, provided that you relinquish your spear and leave it behind you on the ground where you stand."

"Soldier, to that I cannot agree. There are many enemies about, and I need the weapon to defend myself. Besides, there is really no point at all in staying here arguing with you. I must attend to my duties. You are dismissed." Fródwine nodded in the direction of the man, then turned his back on him and began walking away. He was not accustomed to matching wits with adults, and he was uncertain how this man would react to him. He considered cajoling the man into helping him rescue Fritha, but he did not know if that would be such a wise thing to attempt, for madmen were often completely unpredictable. Fródwine would wait to see the man's reaction to his leaving.

"Vorondil!" the man shouted. "Please do not go!" His voice had changed once again, as capricious as the wind in the spring. Now it was coaxing, wheedling, almost begging. "Come, and we shall talk as we did in old times, as friends, one to another. See?" he spoke to Fródwine's back. "I have sheathed my blade!"

Cautiously, Fródwine turned his head, and found that the man had indeed returned his sword to his scabbard. Fródwine had heard that the moods of the mad could swing in a moment, going from wild raving to calm quietude. Whether the stranger would grow more peaceful or not remained to be seen. Fródwine knew that time was rapidly running out for Fritha, if it were not already too late and the sands in the hourglass had trickled to the bottom.

"Aye, we will speak together as we did when we were comrades." As he began the assent up the slope, Fródwine attempted to humor the demented man. When he reached the top, he found that the man was still standing at the edge of the kiln. The early morning sun swept across the top of the kiln, and for the first time, Fródwine could see its pockmarked surface. Nothing here made sense to Fródwine. The top was an almost smooth, flat surface, except for the two indentations that gaped like hungry mouths. His eyes were drawn to the widest hole, which showed signs that the ground had recently slipped. That had to be where Fritha was trapped.

"Vorondil," the man walked towards him with his right hand extended, "come, let us embrace in friendship." His eyes seemed to be a placid gray, like a pool of still water, with nothing of the turbulence that Fródwine had expected to find there.

Moving the spear to his left hand and assuming what he thought was a dignified stance, Fródwine walked towards the man. Before the distance between them could be closed, Fródwine saw a quick motion of the man's hand and heard the sound of metal sliding against metal. How could he have been so foolish as to trust this man even for a moment? There was no way to gain his confidence or humor him. He was still just as dangerous as a wild animal. The man meant to kill him!

"Vorondil! Will you flee the way that Hallas did, or will you stand like a man and face me?"

Raising his sword and laughing wildly, the man bore down on Fródwine and struck at his head. Instinctively, the boy lifted up the spear, extending it forward, and caught the blow mid-handle. Though he pushed against the man's sword with all his might, still the boy could not force him back. The man suddenly drew away to the side and Fródwine, off guard and off balance, was deprived of the balancing weight of the sword. He stumbled and almost fell, but caught the madman's next sword thrust with his spear once again.

Fródwine knew that he could not prevail against him. His arm muscles trembled as the madman tried to push him back. Reaching out with his left hand, his antagonist grabbed the spear and tried to wrestle it from him. Fródwine kicked out and drove his foot into the man's shin, distracting him with pain for the moment and causing him to release the spear. Angrily, Neithan reached out and grabbed the boy's long, greasy hair, twisting the matted tangles around his hand and pulling the youth towards him. Fródwine clenched his teeth in pain and then brought the haft of the spear up into Neithan's face. At the same time, he drove his knee up quickly, ramming it into the man's groin in a vicious, savage blow. His face convulsed in pain, Neithan let loose of the boy's hair as though it were a nest of hissing vipers. Clutching his offended part with one hand, he gripped the sword hilt as he sagged groaning to the ground.

This bastard could have killed Frumgár and him! And for what reason? None, except for his own insane fantasies! Fródwine felt the urge to ram his spear through the man's throat and watch as the blood sprayed like a fountain from the wound. Instead he leveled the sharp point at his enemy's neck. "If you move, I will kill you!" he hissed as the man groped for his sword. Stomping his foot on the man's wrist, Fródwine brought tears to Neithan's eyes. The man's fingers trembled as he released the hilt. Keeping the point of the spear on Neithan's throat, Fródwine quickly stooped down and picked up the sword with his free hand, then was on his feet again.

A loud cry of jubilation went up as Frumgár stumbled out of a small grove of trees higher up the slope. He could not help himself when he laughed merrily at the fallen man's distress. "Fródwine, you got him! You got him!" Then he blushed. "Sorry I could not help you, but I had trouble finding my way around through the trees to the top!"

"Frumgár, you missed all the excitement." He smiled at his brother. "Now since you are here, take his belt and bind his wrists behind his back! We will have no more trouble from this fellow." Fródwine's commands were clipped and brisk, but he was immeasurably proud of himself. At last he had proven his manhood. He was all grown up now! He wondered if he would ever be the subject of ballads and songs sung around the campfire in Rohan. "Fródwine and the Madman" had a good ring to it.

"Happily, brother!" Frumgár exclaimed as he bound the still groaning man's wrists.

"Here, Frumgár, take the sword and spear. Guard this man and keep him out of trouble. Watch him carefully. He is a lunatic and very treacherous! Believe nothing that he tells you," Fródwine ordered as he walked away to the edge of the pit and surveyed the menacing cavity. "I am going to attempt to explore the shaft," Fródwine remarked hurriedly as he began to descend into the pit.

While his brother was gone, Frumgár entertained himself by swishing the sword back and forth in the air as he pretended he was battling an orc. The man at last stopped moaning and watched him through baleful eyes. The boy played with the sword for some moments before he grew tired of the game. Should he speak to the prisoner? he wondered as he looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Never before had Frumgár spoken to a mad person, and he felt uneasy even thinking about it. Sitting down cross-legged on the ground a few feet in front of the man, Frumgár rested the sword and spear across his thighs as he attempted to think of something to say.

"What is your name, sir?"

***

Bending down, Lhûnwen playfully put her hands over his eyes as she nuzzled his ear. "Lhûnwen?" he asked in surprise.

"I cannot fool you, can I, my dearest darling?"

"Nay, Lhûnwen. I always recognize your soft touch."

"Now, my darling," she murmured as she gently laid her hands upon his shoulders, "why are you tormenting these two children? You could have killed the older boy, you know. My dearest, I worry about you so much."

"Children?" he growled. "No children are those! They are Hallas and Vorondil."

"No, no, silly love. The older boy is named Fródwine son of Fasthelm and the younger boy is his brother, Frumgár. You must be good to them both and treat them well, for the two boys are lost and far from home. Promise me that you will not harm them."

"Are you sure, Lhûnwen?" he asked in a dazed voice as he turned his head to look up at her.

"Of course, love of my heart. Would I lie to you?" she asked in her lovely voice which was pure magic to his ears. Massaging his temples with her graceful long fingers, she kissed the side of his cheek. "Do you promise me, joy of my heart?"

"Aye, Lhûnwen, I promise you," he murmured as he felt some of the tension departing from his body.

"You must promise me something else."

"I promise you anything," he sighed as he leaned his head back against her breasts.

"You must protect these boys with your honor and even your life, if necessary."

"Why must I do that, Lhûnwen?" he asked, scowling, his voice querulous.

"Because you love me."

"You ask much, Lhûnwen, but willingly I give it, only for you," he sighed as she ran her hand down his arm. "Stay with me. Please, I beg you!"

"Oh, no, I cannot do that!"

"But I love you so much!"

Smiling, she kissed him again on the cheek, and rising gracefully to her feet, she faded into the forest around them. There, before she disappeared into the light of dawn, he heard her whispers in his mind... "I love you, darling. Surely you know that?"


	35. Aid Unlooked-for

Chapter Written by Angmar

Neithan blinked several times and then looked across to the boy. "I am called Neithan, Neithan the accursed. And who are you, boy?" he asked as his eyes came to focus on Frumgár's face.

Alert at the sound of the man's voice, Frumgár eyed him warily. "Sir, I do not know if I understand everything you said, for I am Rohir and know only a little Westron."

"Boy, I understand some words in that language, so perhaps between us, we can find enough words so that we may talk," Neithan suggested as he unsuccessfully tried to free himself from the belt which imprisoned his hands.

"Surely, sir, I will try." Frumgár had begun to take an interest in this man, who such a short while before had seemed totally devoid of reason. "I am Frumgár son of Fasthelm of the Mark. My younger brother, Fritha, and I were playing up here when he fell down one of the pits, and I am afraid that he might be... might be..." Frumgár could not say the dreadful word, and so he quickly went on, "My older brother, Fródwine, and I tried to find him through the lower tunnel, but it is blocked. He is climbing down to see if Fritha can be reached that way."

"Free me, Frumgár, and I will aid him in his search!" the man promised as he gazed towards the pit.

"Well, sir, I am afraid I cannot do that," Frumgár replied politely, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. "Fródwine said I am to stay here and guard you. Be patient. My brother will surely return soon."

"Lad, listen to reason! I am a full grown man, trained in warfare and soldiery! I could help you rescue your brother!"

"Sir, I am sorry, but I will not free you." Growing more anxious by the second, Frumgár looked down at the rudely carved spear lying across his lap. He wondered if he would be forced to use it.

"Are you afraid of me, boy? Is that what it is?" Neithan looked over at him, a sly look on his face. "You need not be frightened of me. The sickness has passed, and it is not likely that it will return again for some time."

"Sir, you have given us reason to fear you." Frumgár was not so certain that the episode of madness had passed. "Wait until Fródwine comes back." He would let his older brother decide that important matter.

"I give you my word," Neithan promised him as he again began to struggle in his bonds.

"No, we will sit right here, calm and peaceful, until my brother returns."

Suddenly Frumgár's attention was drawn away from the man before him. There, coming through the trees on the slope behind him, was a group of short, squat men clad in brief scraps of hides, none of them much taller than a child. Frumgár's breath caught in his throat and he froze in fear.

"Hail," the leader of the group called out in a deep, guttural voice. "I am Ghân-buri-Ghân, headman of Wild Men of Drúadan Forest. Wild Men mean you no harm. Look for Neithan the Mad of Stonehouse-folk. Ghân-buri-Ghân see you find him."

"That is the man before you, sir, but we did not find him. He found us!" Frumgár exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet and clasped the spear in his hand. He had to remember his good manners to avoid gaping at the strange-looking chieftain.

"Put spear away, young warrior," Ghân remarked solemnly.

"Do not let them touch me!" Neithan shouted in fear as two squat warriors pointed their spears at his back. "These men are my enemies, determined to do me harm! They are in a conspiracy to kill me!"

"Tall man mad. He not know what he talk about." Ghân folded his arms across his chest and waited until the warriors had prodded the protesting Neithan to his feet. "Wild Men no hurt you, man of Stonehouse-folk. Be quiet now. We take you back to village." The headman turned once again to Frumgár. "From color of hair and eyes, Ghân-buri-Ghân think you one of Horse-men. What your name, young warrior?"

Though Frumgár had some difficulty in understanding the speech of the Drûgu, he was far more amazed at their appearance than he was of their language. "Aye, sir, I am of the Mark, and my name is Frumgár son of Fasthelm. My mother's name is Goldwyn."

"Why you here, boy, where no one goes but gorgûn and wild beast?" Ghân's eyes were deep set and unreadable, his voice harsh on the ears, but Frumgár perceived that the small man meant him no harm.

"My mother, my two brothers and I were taken captive by orcs in the Eastfold. Four days ago, we escaped from them, and through a circuitous route, we arrived here as we were trying to make our way back to the Mark. But, sir," Fródwine looked towards the pit, "my little brother fell into the pit over yonder."

"Your brother fall in shaft?" Ghân's eyebrows rose up as he looked at the boy quizzically.

"Yes, sir. We were trying to dig through to him from the tunnel down below the hill when this madman stood at the top of the slope, ranting and raving! He called us by the names of 'Hallas' and 'Vorondil' and threatened to slay us!"

"Neithan man of violence," Ghân shook his head gravely. "Things go in brain one way, come out another."

After Ghân's criticism, Neithan raised a loud cry of protest. "Ghân, my old friend, what you say is untrue! You have turned against me like all my other friends!" A wild, frenzied look crossed over Neithan's face, and his eyes glittered like some preternatural creature's. Shaking free of his guards, he rushed towards Ghân. Before he could reach the leader, Neithan was swiftly knocked to the ground by a blow from the end of one of the Wild Men's spears. There he lay quiet and unresisting.

The old headman leaned forward slightly and spoke to Frumgár in confidential tones. "Neithan completely mad, think strange thoughts and see things not there. Wild Men give him medicine root, make him calm again."

"Oh, I see, sir," Frumgár nodded gravely. "I am certainly glad that something will help him. Is there any hope that he might someday be totally recovered?"

"Wild Man not know everything," Ghân shook his head. "Now Wild Men help boys find brother." Turning, the headmen led a number of his warriors and Frumgár to the ruined pit. There they positioned themselves in a ring around the circumference. "Call brother now. Tell him danger passed and he no need fear Neithan."

Frumgár cautiously walked towards the edge of the precipice and looked down. "Fródwine! You will never believe this in all your life! Our luck has changed!"

From far below, Fródwine answered. "Frumgár, have you taken leave of your senses? This business is much too serious to be making jests!" Fródwine wondered why his brother was speaking in the Common Speech and not in Rohirric, but assumed it was some strange fancy his brother had taken and so he humored him by speaking the same language.

"This is no jest! I am not sure why, but the little men have promised to help us!"

"Have you broken open that flask of orc draught and started drinking it? From the way you are speaking, next you will say that a troop of elves on flying pink horses will swoop out of the heavens to aid us!" Fródwine growled sarcastically as he felt for a foothold on the side of the pit. "Do not bother me! I am more than halfway down, and I have yet to see any sign of our brother!"

"Young man of Horse-men," rolled out the deep, thick voice of Ghân, "your brother no lie or drink strong spirits. He tell truth. Now Ghân send down men to help you. Soon we have your brother out of pit."

Tilting his head upward, Fródwine gazed in total disbelief and shock as a number of small men clad only in the most rudimental of clothing gathered around the rim of the collapsed passage. "Then the legends are true," he silently realized. "The Púkel-men of old still live in the remote valleys and forests of the White Mountains, and I have been fortunate enough to be among the few who have seen them!" Who knew what other wonders still remained undiscovered, lingering past the early ages of Middle-earth?

"Come down and help me," he called up to them. "Those who are desperate will take aid from any who offer, and my brother and I are some of the most desperate!" Distracted by the appearance of the Wild Men, Fródwine misjudged the next step, and his foot slipped off the narrow ledge. For a few moments he clawed desperately for a spot to put his foot, hanging suspended by his hands far above the bottom of the old fire chamber. He was glad it was still so dark down there that he could not see what was down below, or he was certain he would lose his courage. All his concentration went back to inching his way slowly down the steep broken wall. At last he reached a place where he could go down no further, for the rest of the way was filled with rubble. Their brother must be dead! Despairing, he shouted back, "The tunnel is filled, and I see nothing of Fritha!"

"Ghân will look!" came the headman's swift reply as he started moving hand over hand down a rope held securely by his warriors. As Ghân made his descent, other men of his tribe traveled down with him. Reaching the bottom, Ghân bowed low in greeting. "You are Fródwine. I am Ghân-buri-Ghân, headman. Now Wild Men help you rescue brother. We be careful. Do not worry, young warrior," he murmured gently as he gave the boy's shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

"Sir, I do not see how he could be alive," Fródwine sighed in defeat. "Nothing could live after a landslide like this!"

"Still Ghân must try. We all must try to find boy," replied Ghân as he began directing men to move the debris and fashion rope slings to haul up the rubble. Soon portions of the ancient fire chamber were cleared, and the rubble transported up to the furnace roof for disposal. Frumgár climbed down a rope held in the steady hands of a Wild Man, and would have found it an exciting experience had it not been for the gravity of the matter. The work had settled down to a steady, monotonous pace, with little being said by anyone. Then the sounds of labor were broken by a wild scream from above.

"Let me go down!" Neithan shrieked. "I can find him! Lhûnwen will show me! Why will you not let me help you!" He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was pushed back down by two of the Drúedain warriors. He flung his head wildly, spittle trailing from the corners of his mouth as he raved and ranted.

Frumgár looked to Ghân and asked in bewilderment, "Who is Lhûnwen?"

"Mad Neithan supposes he sees strange woman, ghost of betrothed. Neithan say he love woman, but woman no love him. Take other lover, leave him heartbroken. Neithan kill other man and friend. Woman very grieved, poison herself. Very bad thing - drive Neithan mad."

They heard another wild shout ringing out from above. "I tell you, you are digging on the wrong side of the chamber! The boy will die if you do not reach him soon! You must listen!" Neithan wailed like a rabid wolf out upon the moors on a cold winter's night.

"Be still, Neithan! You no can help us! Wild Men find boy!" Ghân replied uncompromisingly.

"What would be the harm in it, sir? If you allowed him to come down here, what possible danger could be in that with his hands bound? Perhaps it will calm him and settle his mind." Frumgár's voice began to waver. "After all, he is only trying to help my poor little brother." Convinced that Fritha was dead, Frumgár could no longer hold back the tears and soon his body was racked with tortured sobs.

"Aye, let him down," Fródwine murmured in agreement. "With his hands tied, he can do no harm. Perhaps he will keep his loud mouth still when he is humored." Although Fródwine thought if the man began his ranting again, he would be tempted to stuff a gag in his mouth.

"Very well, little warriors," Ghân finally agreed. "But if Neithan causes trouble, Wild Men hit him over head again."

"There! That was about time," Neithan remarked accusingly as he was lowered to the bottom by ropes. "I thought you would keep me up there the rest of the day!" He walked to a spot towards the eastern side of the kiln. "Lhûnwen tells me that the child is buried right down there in a pocket in the earth!" He pointed with his foot and looked triumphantly down to a place on the floor.

Fródwine glared at the madman, hissed under his breath and shook his head. "And Frumgár said that our luck had changed!" he laughed to himself. "Now a lunatic directs us where to search! The world has gone mad!"

"I can bear no more," thought Frumgár as he sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

"Men, dig there where Neithan say," Ghân ordered. "Bring torches!" Using knives, axes, and any other tool at their disposal, the Wild Men began excavating the place that Neithan had shown them. Digging carefully in the tight, narrow passage, the men cleared down through the dirt and stone. One group concentrated their efforts there while the others helped move the debris to the side.

When the diggers had gone five feet down, they struck an open area that was almost free of dirt and rubble. All eyes went to Neithan. Widening and expanding the aperture, they dug down until they found that there was a small space at the side of one wall.

Neithan let out a howl of triumph. "See! See! It is as I have said! The Lady Lhûnwen does not lie!"

In the midst of his despair, Frumgár turned to Neithan and saw the gleam of triumph on his face. The madman was right. The cavity lay where he had said it would! Gazing down in awe at the hole, Frumgár allowed a glimmer of hope to pierce the dark cloud that had wrapped its way over his heart.

Fródwine had crawled into the hole and was passing back chunks of stone to the other workers behind him in the narrow passage. "There, do you hear that! That weak noise like the mew of a newborn kitten! Fritha!" he screamed, his heart pounding in excited desperation. "Fritha, do you hear me!"

"Fródwine," came a weak-sounding voice.

"I am almost to him! I can see him! There are only a few more rocks before I can reach him!"

With increasing urgency, Fródwine enlarged the aperture, digging rubble out with his knife. With each stone handed to the man behind him, they were that much nearer to reaching Fritha. As rapidly as he could, each worker passed the rocks to the man behind him. Though the laborers worked as fast as they could, the work was slow, and it seemed like ages of time dragged by as they struggled to clear the passage. At last Fródwine reached Fritha and slipped his cloak under the boy's bruised body.

"Move back, move back!" Fródwine cried as he began dragging Fritha towards the opening. "Make way!" Though he was covered with dust and dirt and his hands were scratched and bleeding, Fródwine did not notice. They had saved his brother! When at last the boys were free of the passage, Fródwine carefully handed Fritha up to Drûghan. "Be careful with him," he urged. "He is battered and bruised, and I fear his arm is broken!"

"Wild Men be careful with boy. Treat him like son," Drûghan assured him. As the Drûg looked down at the injured boy, Fritha smiled up at him. Though far different in appearance, Drûghan saw in his mind the son he hoped he would have some day. The wedding gifts that he would prepare for Ghinga must be of far finer stuff than he had planned. Perhaps he would make her a robe of buckskin lined with rabbit and a necklace of painted wooden beads and deer bones. Things like that would please the woman, and he wanted to please the mother of his son-to-be.


	36. A Home in the Forest

Chapter Written by Angmar

Wary of the treacherous lime kiln which had brought so much misery to the young brothers, Headman Ghân ordered his people and the Rohirric boys to leave the summit and go to the base of the slope. Soon his men had a fire going, tea brewing, and an aromatic potion steeping on a grate over the fire. Fritha, enjoying his position as the center of attention once again, waited while a cup of medicinal tea was brought to him by a young tribesman. When Guri, one of the tribe's healers, set the broken bone, Fritha could not hold back his tears.

"You brave young warrior," Guri applauded him as he wrapped the fractured arm with soft fabric woven of grasses and plant fibers. Splinting the break with clean sticks, the healer bound the injury with sturdy cords woven of grasses. "There, arm grow back straight." Guri bobbed his head up and down as he attached a sling of wide fabric around Fritha's arm before fastening it about the boy's neck.

"Very brave, little brother; you will make a good soldier someday," Fródwine added gravely as he patted Fritha's good shoulder. "Father would be proud of you."

"Oh, Fritha, I was afraid that we had lost you forever! Now the sons of Fasthelm are back together, and we are all going home soon!" Frumgár gingerly hugged the little boy and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. Neither boy caught the slight flicker of guarded emotion deep in Ghân's dark eyes, but Fródwine did.

"I love you, Frumgár," Fritha smiled, a sweet gentle smile. "And you, too, Fródwine." A dreamy expression was on his face, one of the languorous effects of the tea which he had just consumed. Though his arm pained him, the hurt was no longer important, for Fritha felt himself floating, buoyant upon a jeweled sea that rocked him as gently as his mother's arms...

***

"Wild Men stay here until evening. Break camp then. Eat now, warrior boys." Before making his way back to his men, Ghân had watched approvingly as the three boys lifted bowls of soup made from desiccated roots to their lips. Though the taste was unique, the soup was far from unpleasant, and, flavored with thyme and sage, the soup had a comfortable familiarity to it, like a memory of home. They were famished anyway. The broken arm did not pain Fritha unbearably, though it forced him to use his left hand.

"Feeling better, little brother?" Frumgár asked cheerfully in Rohirric. He was almost ecstatic, overjoyed at the delivery of Fritha from the terrible fate of being buried alive, and he could not get enough of the sight of Fritha. How he loved his little brother, and he swore that he would never be hesitant again in telling him! He inclined his head and offered up a prayer to one of the olden Gods of yore of whom legend told.

"Aye," Fritha replied, running his tongue over his lips, "but I am not very hungry. My arm hurts too much, and my stomach feels a little restless."

"Then do not eat very much yet," Frumgár cautioned.

Fritha set the bowl down by his side. "I would rather hear a story now, I think. Tell me again what happened after I fell into the hole. Right from the beginning!"

"I have told you three times already," Frumgár laughed ruefully. "I have just finished my bowl of soup, and I really would like to have another." He excused himself and took his empty bowl to the Wild Men who attended the fire and the soup pot.

"Tell me again and again," Fritha giggled after Frumgár had returned.

"No, Fritha. It is your turn now. You have not told us yet what happened to you. While I drink my soup, tell us... that is if you feel up to relating the tale," Frumgár urged him after he had taken a sip from his bowl. "By the way," he smiled, "this is good soup."

Fritha began talking excitedly. "First the ground slid and then I rolled to the bottom. When I landed, I guess that is when my arm was broken. After that, a rock crashed down and hit me on the head, and then I fell asleep." He tried to remember what happened next, but his tale was interrupted by Ghân, who walked over and squatted down on his haunches in front of the boys. 

"Men make litter for smallest warrior boy to ride back to Ghân's village. He no need walk when he can ride." A slight smile flickered over the headman's face. "Boys stay in village with Ghân's people for a while."

"How long, sir?" Fródwine questioned, a scowl playing over his brow. Though these men were some inches shorter than he was, they were still adults, and adults always wanted to impose their rules upon those whom they thought of as children. Fródwine no longer considered himself a child, but a man capable of making his own decisions. "As soon as possible, I intend to lead my brothers back to Rohan."

"Not possible," Ghân shook his head. "Boys no go back now. Too dangerous."

His temper quickly flaring, Fródwine rose to his feet in an angry stance. "Sir, we did not come all this way to be detained at this point!"

An intractable expression on his face, Ghân rose to his feet, folded his arms across his broad chest and looked into the boy's eyes. "Your king and people come this way in spring. No come back."

"He is right, you know," Neithan intoned matter-of-factly as he cut into the discussion. Bound hand and foot at a distance from the boys, he had a serene, placid expression on his face, a result of the infusion of the mind-numbing tea which he had been forced to drink. 

"Let man of Stone-land tell of this. He know Horse-men language better," Ghân added flatly.

"Ghân, my friend, could you at least tell your men to untie my legs so I may come closer?" Neithan smiled, a too broad smile which showed far too many gleaming white teeth.

"No. Boys finish eating first. They go to you. You stay where you are." The headman looked at him sternly.

Collecting Fritha's bowl and water flask and helping the little boy to his feet, Fródwine and Frumgár escorted their brother to where Neithan was tied. Spreading a blanket out on the ground, the boys sat down. Frumgár tucked a too-large cloak about the child's shoulders and placed his utensils close by his side.

"Tell us then, Neithan. You seem so eager," Fródwine snapped sarcastically as he rested his hands across the sword on his lap.

"The armies met at Pelennor. It was a disaster for the West." Neithan's voice was solemn, weighted with the sorrow of defeat.

"We are aware of that." Fródwine scowled, his lean jaw clenched firmly. "We saw the carnage of the battlefield. The enemy is as fond of boasting as they are of displaying their battle trophies in bizarre ways."

"Aye," Neithan remarked sadly. "They would turn all of Middle-earth into their own kingdom and rule it with an iron fist from the Dark Tower. The mad Fiend will make a feast of all the kingdoms of the world."

"He will never succeed!" Fródwine cried with grim determination as he clenched his right fist in anger. "Not while there are men with steel in their hands who will risk all and dare to fight Him!"

"Like you, boy?" Neithan replied, his voice low and solemn, his eyes showing his bemusement.

"I am not afraid to die, sir!"

"You are a brave lad; I attest to your valor," Neithan concurred. "And what about you, boy?" He glanced over to Frumgár.

"To be honest, I would much prefer to live. I do not have much liking for weapons and warfare, but I suppose if I were faced with battle, I could bear it." Frumgár's thoughts turned introspective and he wondered, if faced with the decision, could he bear to kill a man? He was glad he did not have to decide that today.

"What happened after the battle, Neithan? We know nothing of any of this," Fródwine pressed him. He had no great liking for the madman, considering him a danger to them all, but he might still be able to relay some useful information.

"I have not told you all," Neithan explained. "There is more bad news that perhaps you have not heard. Your king met his end at the battle. The armies of the West fled from the city and fought a delaying battle on the run as they made their way through southern Gondor. Back in April, there was a great battle at the Fords of Ethring. The first battle was a victory for the West, but the second battle was a defeat. Then in May, the City of Tarnost was taken."

Unable to understand much of what was said because it was spoken in Common, Fritha lost interest in the conversation. The little lad began to nod, dreaming dreams while he was still awake. He was flying in the air, upon the back of a great beast which was guided by a kind man dressed in a tattered black and silver surcoat over a gleaming halberk. Fritha giggled as the rider turned back to look at him and remarked dryly in that deep, rich baritone voice of his, "'Tis a pity that you did not cross the Sea. I hear that the voyage is extraordinarily marvelous, and that the fish are delicious. Sadly, though, the company is rather bland and unremarkable. Enduring them is worth the tedium, however, for you will meet the Guardian of the Forever Portal when you reach that far distant shore. Should you have gone, you could have relayed my regards to the Keeper."

"I like fried fish done up nice and crisp and golden brown!" Another burst of giggles hit Fritha as the rider guided his beast in a severe upward climb on a current of air. Fritha wrapped his arms around the warrior's thin frame as they plunged rapidly in dizzying twists and turns towards the earth. Unfortunately, Fródwine's loud exclamation roused him away from the beautiful dream before he could find out what happened next.

"How do you know so much about it?" Fródwine demanded coldly.

Neithan eyed the boy. "I was in the battle of Tarnost, and I slew the enemy until the bodies of the fallen surrounded me in great heaps. Then, in the midst of the fighting, my vision dimmed until I could see nothing but shadows, and the next thing I knew, I was once more among the Wild Men. They told me that there was not a mark upon me when I wandered into their village... that I was sick again. I am not certain if I deserted. Perhaps I did. Sometimes the way seems dim to me. Some say I am mad," he laughed, the corner of his right eye twitching. "Perhaps I am."

"Your news is indeed grievous. In the short time I have known you, Neithan of Gondor, I do not believe I have heard one word from your lips that was not fraught with grief and desolation." Fródwine shook his head. The man should be kept chained, he thought to himself, and put in a cage so he could not harm either himself or anyone else. He hoped that he never escaped!

"Desolate though my words might be, surely you can see now why old Ghân will not allow you to adventure back to Rohan. The sword is dipped in blood and the ravens call a great feast! The hearth is bleak and cold, and the horn sounds in the east!" A strange, gurgling laughter tore itself out of Neithan's throat, and he rocked back and forth, nodding his head up and down.

"Have you any other news that you wish to impart to us, Neithan? How goes the war, or do you know?" Fródwine's blue eyes burned coldly beneath his pale brows.

"I know many things. The Lady tells me."

"The lady?" Frumgár ventured.

"Lhûnwen," Neithan replied softly.

***

Neithan lapsed into silence, a peaceful expression on his face as he gazed far beyond the horizon into his own world of visions and illusions. Lhûnwen pressed silken fingertips across his bearded cheeks and spoke to him of love and promises, while Vorondil and Hallas stood at a distance, smirking. The rest of the spectral horde of the madman's victims hovered amongst the trees, their shadowy outlines barely visible to Neithan.

"Is he asleep?" Frumgár whispered. 

"Aye, I believe so. May he sleep long! His words are arrogant and vainglorious! I yearn to be rid of him!" Fródwine replied, touching the hilt of the dagger at his belt. 

"Poor man," Frumgár murmured.

"Poor man?" Fródwine retorted heatedly. "He would have killed me!"

"Brother, peace! Let us talk no more of this pathetic, tortured man. I would much rather hear Fritha continue his tale." Turning to the little boy, Frumgár asked, "What happened after you woke up?"

Fritha picked up the water flask which lay beside him and took a deep drink. "I saw a man, and he led me down a dark tunnel."

"That is impossible!" Fródwine exclaimed, always a skeptic. "You are still suffering the effects from the blow to your head. There could be no man down there!"

"Oh, but there was a man!" Fritha insisted. "He was tall and had shaggy black hair, and his clothing was tattered and wayworn. He was kind, but seemed very sad. He told me that this place had once been called the Nimgil Lime Kiln, and the pit was really a great chimney out of which flames and smoke would spew continuously when the men were burning lime. He was a poor man, a wanderer, and one winter he came to the fire seeking to warm himself. He was unsure if he drank too much or was overcome by the smoke and fumes and plunged over the side of the shaft and into the fire. Now he is trapped there forever!" Fritha looked down sadly.

"Oh, Fritha!" Fródwine shook his head in disgust. "Where do you come up with these tales? Frumgár tells you too many stories about ghosts and barrows. I will hear no more of this! I have had enough of spirits and dead people!" He rose to his feet. "I want to go now and talk to the headman. He considers it unwise for Neithan to retain his sword, and so he has given it into my keeping. Drûgan has promised a bit of leather that I can use to strap the scabbard on my back. You may have the spear I made. It is not of the best workmanship, but I had never made a spear before. It stood us in good stead, though, when need was upon us." He glanced down at the spear before turning back to Frumgár. "Fritha can stay here and entertain you." He chuckled dryly as he walked away.

"Oh, Fritha, finish the rest of your story!" Frumgár exhorted eagerly as he leaned forward to hear his brother speak.

"The man told me that the workmen had already prepared the kiln with limestone and fuel, and would soon put the torch to it. He said that he would lead me out before the lime burner set to work. He showed me to a tunnel and led me down it. When we came to the ending, the sun had climbed into the sky and everything was green and growing again. We were upon the brow of the hill, and a pathway led away before us and wound about across the beautiful plain. Spring flowers were growing again and I picked a bouquet for Mother." Fritha's eyes shone eagerly in his small face.

"We came to a spot on the path, and the man said he could go no farther. Before us was the sea. Oh, Frumgár, I had never seen anything like it before! It was so big and wide. The man told me that I could sail on a boat to the other shore. It was as though I could gaze all the way to the other side of the broad sea, where I could see Father smiling and beckoning to me." The little boy's face had taken on a dreamy quality as he mentioned his father.

"Fritha, that is a strange dream! While it seems lovely and peaceful, I have an uneasy feeling about it, and the dream makes me sad." Frumgár looked down, his expressive blue eyes pensive and melancholy.

"The dream was not mournful at all, Frumgár! Never before have I dreamed about Father, and I was glad that I did this time."

Frumgár had heard that those who were close to death sometimes had visions or dreams such as the one which Fritha described. A cold shudder rippled down his spine as he remembered the grim spectre on the dreadful flying beast that they had seen two nights before. Surely that phantom was a harbinger of doom! How perilously close his little brother must have been to dying! What had snatched him back from death's claim?

There was nothing in his expression or voice to reveal how alarmed he had been by the dream, though. "Go on, Fritha," he urged gently. "Is there more?"

"A little," Fritha replied. "The man said that it was my decision whether I wished to cross the sea or stay upon the shore, but that he would never be able to go there. He waited for me while I thought a while, and when I finally decided, I chose to stay because I did not want to leave my mother or brothers. That was all, Frumgár. Was that not a wonderful dream?"

"Aye," Frumgár lied, feeling uncomfortable. "Oh, look, brother," he touched Frumgár's shoulder to try to catch his attention, "the headman and Fródwine are coming this way!"

When the man and boy had reached them, Ghân was wearing a satisfied expression on his face, as though he had won a small victory. "Little warrior agrees with Ghân. Boys will stay with Wild Men until it safe for them to go home. Old king who died was good man. He make peace with Wild Men, and always be friendship among us. We help Horse-lord boys. Teach them ways of forest, how to live in woods, find food, hunt, fish, craft. Maybe you find you like, stay with Wild Men."

"Aye, chieftain," Fródwine interjected, "and you have promised that you will show me how to make weapons and fight!"

"I would like to learn about healing and plants," Frumgár admitted shyly.

"And what about you, little warrior? What you want to learn?" Ghân turned to Fritha.

"Make toy horses and riders," Fritha giggled, "and a drum!" 

"Boys will learn," Ghân nodded, his rugged face covered with smiles. "Now time to go back to village. Getting near evening. Time we break camp, go to village."

A wry grin on his face, Fródwine considered that while his plans to lead them home had been postponed, still he and his brothers would gain by their stay with the Wild Men. It would be good to rest a while in a camp... and there would always be time for him to go off by himself and taste the commandeered flask of orc draught. He was now a man, after all.


	37. Confrontation With Evil

JOURNAL OF THE PHYSICIAN TUSHRATTA OF KHAND  
Morning of 12 Du'ûzu, the thirtieth year of the Reign of King Shapsusharr of Khand  
Midsummer Day, June 21, 3019, according to the Western reckoning

This morning, I once again open my journal and set out to record my observations of the events which occur around me. With the few fleeting moments that are allowed to me before the caravan departs, there is never an opportunity to do more than summarize the events that have happened. Still I feel that I must attempt to transcribe these experiences and thoughts before they retreat into the recesses of memory and are forever lost. How can I with any degree of acuity and clarity of mind ever recall all of the many strange and unusual occurrences of yestereve, I have no idea. Still I am desirous of making an attempt to account them so these things will serve as a record for those who come after me.

Near dusk last evening, Aziru and I returned from the scene of the unauthorized disciplining of the slave women. Such events, filled as they are with an abundance of visual and auditory stimulations that tend to inflame the passions, often leave the observers in a state of agitated excitement. My mind was overburdened with all that I had seen and heard, and I wished only to enjoy a quiet supper before playing a game of chess with Aziru. How often it is that our plans are never to know fruition! The physician must take all this in his stride, though, for he of all men does not own his own time, but has given it to others.

While the subject of punishment is upon my mind, I will record here in my journal that I have no quarrel with the whipping of servants if the punishment is applied fairly and if it is for the betterment of the slaves. The practice is considered necessary, even in the case of wives, for females are weak and their minds are flighty. They need the firm resolve of disciplined men to keep them under control. Left to their own devices, females will invariably stray into mischief, often allowing themselves to be beguiled and taken down into adultery. A virtuous woman - wife, concubine or slave, whatever she may be - is one who knows and fears the rod of her father, husband or master, keeps her place in the house, and lives her life solely according to the will of the man whom fate has put in charge of her.

However, while whipping has its place, only those of our own kind should be allowed to apply it. Entrusting the brutish orcs with the authority to administer chastisement will only give them an overblown sense of their own importance. They have neither the strength of mind nor the moral fortitude to be able to dispense punishment fairly. Seldom do they whip moderately, but rather are they inclined to lay the beating on heavily. But my opinion is quite unimportant, for I am only one man, and each one, either fool or sage, is quite irrelevant in the overall scheme of the world. Enough of these ramblings; it is pointless to fill up my journal with useless ruminations!

As I have said, my hopes for a peaceful evening were to be disappointed. Aziru and I had scarcely entered our pavilion when we found the lady Goldwyn in a frenzy bordering on hysteria. In our absence, her maid, the slave woman Barsud, had been forced to call upon the aid of the guards to restrain the patient. Goldwyn was almost in a frothing rage. As though she had some preternatural sense of cognition, the lady seemed to know that some unpleasantness had befallen her comrades. Of course, this could be easily explained by her overhearing some careless remark. Her first words to me were something to the tune of, "Hypocrite! You are just as foul as the rest of them! Why do you attempt to act as though you were better?"

Her words grew to be nothing more than a heated diatribe, interspersed by gibberish and garble. She was throwing another of her fits, and this time it was so severe that it was consuming her with its potency. Though I attempted to pacify her, there was no settling her down. She drew her hand back to slap my face but I caught it before she could do any harm. That turned her into a screaming fury, forcing me to struggle and fight with her until I had forced her down upon her bed. While Aziru prepared a calming draught, I held her there, but she struggled and wiggled so furiously that I feared I might injure her as I attempted to restrain her.

After the drug had taken its somnolent effect, Goldwyn grew calmer. With this return to a peaceful state of affairs, I allowed Barsud to go to the tent of the slave women, for she needed to gather a few garments. Although some might not have been so generous, I allowed her to spend one hour with her two children. The woman seldom offends me, for she is most obedient, never attempting to impose upon my good nature. Assured that she knew her first duty, I was confident that she would not stay overlong and would come back before the allotted time had elapsed.

While Barsud was away, I kept vigil by Goldwyn's bed. As the woman slept, I decided that I would attend to some necessary reading of my medical books. That night, the volume did not seem to hold my attention, and try as I might to read a treatise on abscesses, I found my eyes constantly wandering to her lovely face and divine form. I confess I could not concentrate upon my reading as I observed the blissful expression upon her face and the gentle rise and fall of her bosom. At last I turned back to my reading and left her to her slumbers.

It was shortly after the first watch ended that something aroused my notice. I could not determine what it was, and glancing about the tent, I perceived that all was in order. No one save the lady and I were in the room, for Aziru was occupied in the outer chamber with some reading of his own, and Barsud was still away. Concluding that I had heard only some sound from outside, I looked down at the woman and found her still peacefully sleeping. Irritated at the interruption, I turned back to my reading. 

Not many minutes had passed until I distinctively heard my name being spoken in my own language. My eyes went immediately to the woman, but I found that she was still sound asleep. Putting my book down on the table, I rose to my feet and peered into every corner of the inner chamber. Thinking perhaps that Aziru had called me, or had said something to the guards or to one of my slave boys, I went into the other section of the tent.

Finding he was alone and fully engrossed in his work, I asked him if he had called to me or any other. Surprised at my question, he informed me that he had spoken to no one. My assistant noted that, other than a guard and one of the boys, there was no one assigned to duty near the tent at this hour. I went outside to see for myself and found Hibiz snoring at the entryway. Convinced that there was nothing that could not be explained by logic, I went back to the inner chamber. Though I felt like a fool for doing so, I once again walked about, searching every darkened corner of the tent. Not even the roof of the tent escaped my inspection. Again, nothing.

Convinced that I had merely let my worries get the better of me, I picked up my book and sat down by her bed. All was quiet, except for the sounds of her measured breathing. I was fascinated by her delicate white skin, the dark shadows beneath her closed eyes, the rosebud petals of her lips, and the form and graceful outlines of her body. All of these contributed to her almost ethereal beauty. Unable to read, I watched the rhythm of her chest rising and falling, the material of her gown draped like a film of gossamer around the contours of her breasts. It embarrasses me to admit that I felt the urge to reach down and fondle one of her nipples. I fairly trembled with the impulse to feel the delicious little bud hardening under my fingertips. Though it was a severe act of will to refrain from touching such a lovely creature, I did not give into the more perverse impulses of my nature.

Trying to keep the thoughts of her from my mind, I went back to reading. Within a few minutes, I then heard my name again. Low and husky, the voice whispered out the vilest invitation: "Lie with me." It was a voice I could not recognize and had never heard before that time. Like the most craven of cowards, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise like the bristling hair on the neck of an angry dog. A shudder went down my spine as I heard the words again. I swear by all the holy gods that it was a man's voice coming from her beautiful lips! In spite of my disgust and fear, an overwhelming lust began to fill me, and I felt myself being irresistibly drawn to the woman's calm face. As her lips moved, once more I heard the voice.

As though bewitched, I bent down and gripped her head in my hands. I kissed her violently and loathsomely, sucking her lips into my mouth and licking them with my tongue. In her sleep, she moaned into my mouth, a pathetic cry like a hurt kitten. Her sighs only inflaming me more, I tore the covers from her body. Racked with a cold sweat, I felt at the same time as though I were on fire, consumed by the flames which radiated from my loins. Sweating and grunting like an animal, I fumbled to take down my pantaloons, my only thought to sheath my ferocious erection inside her. Wild, primal urges surged through my mind, demanding that I must spend my seed inside her as quickly as I could. In my abject insanity, I sensed that this obscene union was the only way in which she and I could ever know fulfillment in the flesh.

My body demanded release; I had become like a rutting animal, a beast! But no less than my body, my mind craved it, demanded it, yearned for it! I know that I was mad, overcome with a foul lust that possessed and consumed me with a rank lechery. I reveled in my madness, no longer caring, for I had become obsessed in the space of a heartbeat. I yanked her gown above her waist, wanting only to see her ripe downy peach displayed before me, her voluptuousness open for the taking. Demented and burning with desire to have her, there would be nothing - no moral compunctions, no human compassion, no fear of divine retribution - nothing to hold me back!

Caring naught for my dignity, my honor, or what might be done to me should I be found out, I gloated as my mind filled with the carnal frolic which was to come. My body quaking with lust, I slid her to the edge of the bed and spread her thighs wide apart. Kneeling between them, I was on the verge of sinking myself into her dry chalice. Then, suddenly, her eyelids fluttered open like the beating of a bird's wing. Wide open in a ghastly unseeing stare, her dilated blue eyes deepened and darkened until they were black and fell, terrible eyes which I did not know! 

Then suddenly the pools of ink evaporated, the murky tide drawing back and receding, her pupils shrinking as though a brilliant light had been waved just above her face. The turquoise orbs of her irises seemed to shimmer and scintillate, like an undulating mirage of some mystical city seen upon the distant horizon across the burning dunes of a sweltering desert. The milky whites of her eyes turned into opalescent pools which rippled like the prismatic waters of some otherworldly mere.

I found I could not turn away from them, no matter how hard I tried. It was as though a powerful spell of binding held my will captive, imprisoned in those ever-changing iridescent depths. And then much to my horror, I beheld, slowly taking shape through the coalescing mists of opal and turquoise, the pale and faded form of a masculine entity. Surrounded by a phosphorescent glow, his supine body floated upon dark and shadowy waters, his graceful ivory fingers clasped upon his breast as though in final repose. Just one glance at the pallor of his skin, the shadowy pits of his sunken cheeks, and the ghostly whiteness of his lips would leave no doubt in the mind of anyone that this man was utterly and completely dead.

But then his cold, dead eyes suddenly snapped open and he looked directly into mine. My breath stopped in my chest and I gaped in increasing terror at these bizarre sights which I beheld as I stared trance-like into the lady's eyes. His cruel orbs glittering like two black diamonds, the spirit's pallid lips pulled back in a ghastly smile that was both repulsively ghoulish and morbidly alluring. And then I heard in my mind a voice so unbearably seductive and superbly masculine that it would cause even the most chaste man to turn into a wanton deviant.

"Lie with me... complete this trinity. Together we shall share her, and together she and I will share you."

In that one moment, I knew in the deepest core of my soul that this foul phantom was of the accursed Edimmu. My unknown adversary was one of the wandering ghosts, the restless spirits, the undead walkers, the devils who thirst for living bodies in which they may inhabit. Wishing to slake its contemptuous lusts, it would force me to commit the most perverse obscenities upon Goldwyn. This foul thing from some tormented nether-place beyond the barriers of time and eternity wanted both the woman and me!

He had trapped my mind with his bewitchment. My thoughts came sluggishly, struggling like insects whose wings and legs are mired, caught in a pot of thick honey. I sensed his cruel, mocking laughter, like some callous youth who will laugh at the sufferings of others. My tormented mind fought to break through the thick barrier of evil magick, but I was helpless. 

In desperation, I clutched at the amulet which hung about my neck and implored the Chief Goddess of Healing. I mumbled prayers of protection and deliverance that I had not invoked in years and could scarcely remember. In the distress of my spirit, I called upon the name of every healing power of whom I had ever heard. I found myself babbling in several languages and dialects, Khandian, Haradric. "Estë! Estë!" I called out, using one of the many names for the Goddess. Frantic with terror that she would not hear me, I screamed out her name as I almost wrenched the amulet from my neck.

The spirit shrieked as though in unbearable agony, but still I continued my storm of supplications. I wanted to bring him pain, deal as much hurt to him as he was eager to give to the lady and me. Then, as though gathering itself for a final battle, I felt its presence encompassing me like a swell of putrefying corruption and wickedness. An oily black vapor seemed to sink into each pore, each vein, each sinew and bone of my frame, trying to overcome me, trying to wrest my body away from my soul.

"Estë! Estë! Estë!" Again and again I screamed the name of the Goddess in Quenya, for the name seemed to have more power over the spirit in that language. The fiend shuddered and then recoiled. Then with a hissing shriek, like an enraged dragon, the fell spirit thrust me backward, knocking me sprawling to the floor. Still it lingered about the body of the woman, curling like a serpent of smoke around her supine form.

Struggling to my knees, my body shaking and drenched in its own rank sweat, I swayed as I clutched the holy amulet tightly in my fist and invoked the name of the Goddess. "Be gone, unclean spirit of the Edimmu! You have no power over those whom the Goddess of Healing protects! Depart unto the Land of No Return, the darkness from whence you come, and trouble us no more!"

With one last shriek, the phantom sighed and evanesced in a cloud of black smoke which stank and fumed like a flaming pit of bitumen. He was gone, driven away, back to the vile pits from whence he had come! Though his hold over the lady had been broken for the time, some sense told me that this powerful, wicked spirit would not give up so easily. Knowing that my life had been irrevocably changed, I did not fight the overpowering sense of exhaustion that filled me as the world turned black before me and I sank into a weary stupor.

When I awoke, Aziru was kneeling beside me, shaking me by the shoulder. "Tushratta, are you all right?" he asked, deep concern in his voice. "I was in the outer chamber and heard a noise. When I came in here, I found you lying upon the floor."

The room was spinning around me as I struggled to a sitting position. "Yes, yes," I mumbled, shaking my head to clear it. "I had just gone to see about the Lady Goldwyn when suddenly I felt ill, and I suppose I fainted."

"Ah, Master Physician," Aziru chided me, "you have been working far too hard lately! You need more rest."

"I think you are right, Aziru," I replied, carefully rising and going over to sit at the table. "That is all it is... exhaustion."

"You ought to go to bed now, Physician. Have a draught of wine to steady your nerves first," Aziru encouraged me as he poured a goblet of wine. "I will watch the patient until Barsud returns."

"You mean she is not back yet?" I asked, uncertain how much time had elapsed during my period of unconsciousness.

Aziru wrinkled his forehead and tugged idly at his nose. "She has only been gone a short while."

I looked at him incredulously. Then the whole encounter with the fell spirit had taken place in less than an hour. In wonderment, I looked about the chamber and saw that everything was exactly as it had been before. The medical tome was still on the table, open to the chapter on abscesses, and the wine decanter was undisturbed on the table. The lady lay sleeping peacefully upon the bed, a serene smile upon her face, as though all cares had been lifted from her troubled mind. At first I wondered if the pale apparition had been just a dream, but yet my soul told me that it was not, and that the foul spirit had not finished with either the lady or me.


	38. The Delicate Orc

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

The tallest and most powerfully built of the three uruks was in the lead as the group angled down the heavily forested slope. Wise in the ways of avoiding detection, they were careful not to show themselves above the crest of the peak, for their dark silhouettes would be seen against the lighter color of the sky. They had no desire to betray their presence to anyone in the valley below.

The tall, broad-shouldered uruk held up his hand and signaled a halt, glancing back to the tracker of the trio. "Torû, think you can ever pick up the scent again?"

Torû shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe," came his terse reply. A block of muscle, his hefty form was clad in a shirt of boiled leather stitched here and there with metal scales, and a pair of leather breeches. His wide feet were shod in heavy boots. A cloak of green was draped about his wide shoulders, and a quiver of arrows and an unstrung bow hung over his back. His lank black hair was pulled back and tied loosely by a strip of leather at the base of his neck. Scowling, his thick lips drawn and tight upon his flat, swarthy face, his slanted, catlike eyes were small amber slits on either side of his broad, flat nose.

"Not too hopeful, are you, Torû?" came the mocking query. The two uruks' eyes bored into each other for a moment until the leader of the three turned away. "Well, since we aren't getting anywhere wandering around up here, we'll go down and take a look in the valley."

"Wait, Sharapul!" The slender uruk standing beside the leader touched him on the sleeve. 

"What is it, Âmbalfîm, my little cock-warmer?" An indulgent expression upon his face, Sharapul stroked the youth's cheek.

"O arouser of my passions, I am not certain, but I think I caught the odor of warm flesh wafted upon the upward breezes," the young male uruk simpered. His long eyelashes fluttered as he pushed his cheek into Sharapul's hand. "I am unable to say anything with certainty, though. My bloodlines are not those of a tracker."

"You were bred for something far better, sweet boy, and we know what it is!" The big uruk chuckled as he patted the smaller orc's crotch, sending him into a fit of effete titters as the touch put a hefty bulge in his breeches.

Part man and part orc, Âmbalfîm could almost be called handsome, even by mannish standards. He favored his Gondorian ancestry far more than he did his brutish orc foresires. His features were refined, almost Elvish in a twisted sort of way. His soft, wistful eyes were green, the color of aventurine, like new leaves in the spring. His sensitive long ears, which flicked back and forth whenever he heard a curious sound, rose to leaf-like points and were pierced with the most delicate of silver rings.

Unlike most orcs, Âmbalfîm's fangs were milk white and pearly, much like those of a young wolf's. His long nails were well-manicured and stained with black paint. His raven hair was long and flowing like strands of night sprinkled with stars, and he had affixed ribbons and brightly colored bird feathers into the small, comely braids which hung freely throughout his luxurious mane.

He would have preferred to dress in the frills and finery which he had purloined from ladies' wardrobes in the conquered city of Minas Tirith. As a compromise, however, Âmbalfîm wore a white silk chemise adorned with ruffles and pale pink ribbons under his boiled leather armor and tunic. His rough leather breeches hid fine satin undergarments which had been taken from the boudoir of a fine lady of the White City.

Sharapul enjoyed watching Âmbalfîm dress himself in the fine garments, but he appreciated it even more when Âmbalfîm performed a slow, sensual disrobing for him when they were alone. His eyelids outlined with kohl, his lips enhanced with colored balm, Âmbalfîm would tease and wink coquettishly, arousing Sharapul to a state of erotic frenzy. Slowly pulling down the shoulder of his gown, Âmbalfîm would touch his silver nipple rings and stroke the black pebbles into hardness. When Sharapul grasped the silver ring that pierced the boy's tool, he would lose all control. In those times, his loins burned so fiercely that he did not even bother with applying the hot oil. He simply bent Âmbalfîm over, pulled up his skirts, and took him right there. 

Beneath the happiness that he had found as the love toy of Sharapul, Âmbalfîm's soulful green eyes hid great sorrow. He had discovered long ago that the rest of his tribe vehemently disapproved of his effeminate ways, turning against him when they discovered his shame. His delicate, sensitive nature had surfaced when he was very young. Once when he was an imp, he had strayed away from the caves and wandered into a high mountain meadow. There, as he sat amidst the tall grass and wove long chains of daisies and braided them into his hair, he had composed songs about cheerful little birds flitting about in peaceful meadows. Proud of his adornments, he had returned home, expecting his stern mother to be pleased with him. Instead, she was enraged and beat him severely for these "perversions," as she had called his peaceful pursuits, and forbade him ever to return to the lovely field of flowers. 

"Âmbalfîm," his mother had railed, "you are too much like your father, that Tark weakling! He did not even have the balls to mate me in the way that a true warrior would! The little coward! I had to straddle him and stroke his prick to hardness before forcing it into me cunny!" Embarrassed by these revelations, Âmbalfîm had cringed as she recited his father's many inadequacies. His father had been a ranger of Ithilien who had been unlucky enough to be captured by a patrol and taken to Minas Morgul as a possible sire. For years, the man had been forced to act as the unwilling stud to countless female orcs in the breeding pits of Minas Morgul. The torture of his life had finally ended when one of his lusty brides, enraged with his paltry male endowments and bumbling ineptitude, had choked the life out of him. Âmbalfîm's mother, protective of his future, had considered it necessary to beat him regularly for his own good.

His gentle spirit nearly crushed by this cruel abuse, Âmbalfîm drove his secret yearnings for beauty and love deep into his heart where they smoldered for years until they resurfaced when he was a youth. On the threshold of maturity, he had found his heart and loins strangely stirred when he beheld the broad, wide shoulders, slender waists, and tight, muscular buttocks of other males. He had wondered if the other youths felt the same yearnings for him as he did for them. For a long time, he had not the courage to approach any of them with his unusual tastes. 

When at last Âmbalfîm's heart burnt in the throes of love, the object of his desire was an older, much larger uruk, one of the tribe's best warriors. Watching the other uruk as he strutted about the camp and inhaling the ripe, rich scent of his male essence, Âmbalfîm burned with passion. Though he lusted for the big uruk, the apple of his eye studiously ignored him. After weeks of pining, Âmbalfîm could bear it no longer and resolved that very night to offer himself to his beloved. He knew he would die if the warrior rejected him, but he would die anyway if he never revealed his love!

When all the others were asleep, he lay down at the foot of the older male's furs and gently kissed and licked his feet. "Take my virginity, my lord," he whispered. "I am yours to do with as you would!" The other male grunted, and Âmbalfîm was sure that he must be as willing and eager as he was. Still, he waited a while before snuggling under the fur beside his nude body and timidly encircling his sleeping spear with a hand.

When the other orc did not object, Âmbalfîm was convinced that he had been accepted. He applied more pressure, sliding the foreskin up and down. So excited that his hand trembled, he feared he might faint when he felt the other's flaccid member responding in a great display of throbbing tumescence. He groaned loudly as his own more modest organ surged into action. Âmbalfîm's murmurs and rapid fondling soon awoke the object of his affection.

When his adored one discovered that the lovely female of his dream was really a male, his eyes blazed with fury. Grabbing Âmbalfîm around the neck, he dug his fingers into his windpipe until Âmbalfîm's eyes bulged and his tongue lolled out. The enraged male rose to his feet, grabbed Âmbalfîm and hurled him across the floor of the cave. "Get away from me, you dirty little lecher, or I'll cut off your stinking prick and stuff it down your throat!"

Bruised and battered, tears streaming down his cheeks, Âmbalfîm had fled from the cave, an outcast among his own tribe. He had broken an ancient taboo, and the shame was so great that he could never return. After that, he had wandered aimlessly through the Mountains of Shadow, wishing only to die, for great was the pain of his broken heart and his deep shame. His life no longer had any meaning, for not only was he reviled by his own people, but he knew he was doomed never to know love. No one would ever understand his sensitive and delicate nature, and his attraction towards his own gender. Indeed, Fate had paid him a cruel trick by placing him in the body of a male orc, when he should have been born in the body of a female elf.

He would have been supremely happy if he could spend all of eternity as the wife of a great elven lord, bearing his children. He could imagine himself spinning and weaving fine garments for his husband and making jewelry of incredible beauty for his family. Perhaps he would have been a poet, singer, or musician, but cruel Fate had denied him that! His only solace was daydreaming of being the mate of Finrod Felagund and listening starry-eyed as he played songs upon his harp. Such tender thoughts filled Âmbalfîm's mind and comforted him in his loneliness as he pleasured himself with his fingers wedged deep inside his dark chamber, pretending they were really the glorious love spear of Finrod.

Âmbalfîm's existence was a misery to him as he wandered alone. At times he thought of taking his own life by falling upon his sword, or plunging over a precipice to his death on the rocks below. He wandered, not knowing or caring where he was or what might befall him. Death would be a blessing, for it would end the tragedy of his existence. There was no bosom companion to walk beside him on his journeys, no handsome face to smile at him in love, no rapturous embraces to be shared as he and his lover sat hand in hand and watched the stars come out one by one. And the nights! They were the saddest of all! There was no beloved to soothe away his worries, kiss away his sorrows, and relieve the ache that throbbed constantly in his loins! 

Despairing of ever finding his soulmate, he had resigned himself to a life of loneliness. Then one night as he was sitting by his solitary campfire, contemplating the wretchedness of his miserable life, he heard a twig snap nearby. He raised his handsome head to see a group of five young uruk males rushing upon him. They had come from downwind, and he had not picked up their scent. 

"Ho, pretty boy!" their leader had shouted. "We have come looking for you! You have quite a reputation as a slut! We want to find out if your tender recesses hold as many joys as they say they do!"

"Go away! I do not know what you are talking about!" As the five circled around him, terror struck Âmbalfîm. His heart hammered in his chest and his breath came in great, heaving gulps. His hands shook as he fumbled for his knife. He had never been the best fighter, always preferring fleeing to fighting. How could he ever defend himself against such rowdy fellows?

"Oh, I think you do!" the leader guffawed lewdly. "Everyone has heard of Âmbalfîm the bottom boy, who spreads his cheeks for any who ask! Now pull down your breeches, and we'll all have a turn at you! We'll see if you're everything you're reported to be!"

"No! No!" Âmbalfîm screamed as two of the brutes held him while the leader tugged down his leather breeches and knelt behind him. Âmbalfîm struggled even more and begged for mercy as he felt the hot, thick hardness of the leader's loathsome member pressing against his tender rear.

"Your nether cave is plenty big enough, so this shouldn't hurt too much! I know it's not your first time!" the leader whispered huskily as he bit Âmbalfîm's ear, almost severing it in two.

"Oh, please, please!" Âmbalfîm sobbed, bitter tears coming to his eyes. "I am a virgin!"

"Har har! Then I will be your first! Count yourself lucky! You're in for a great deal of fun! Ready, you passive little prick?" The leader laughed harshly and dug his claws into Âmbalfîm's hips. As he began to push forward, entering the youth's secret chamber, Âmbalfîm screamed in agony. The leader laughed even harder, but his laughter was caught in his throat and turned into a gruesome gurgle. An arrow had hit him from behind, barely missing his spinal cord and gouging a bloody hole as the barb plunged out the front of his throat. A stream of bloody froth rained down on Âmbalfîm, and then his attacker sagged on him, his heavy weight crushing Âmbalfîm into the ground.

Âmbalfîm fought to extract himself from the dead orc, but the corpse was far too heavy for his delicate body to lift. There was another scream as an arrow took down one of the orcs who had been holding him. Another blood-chilling cry echoed through the woods as an iron barb drove through the viscera of the third orc. The remaining two took to their heels and melted into the woods. 

Weeping in his terror, Âmbalfîm shuddered as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. A deep, masculine voice cursed in Black Speech. Âmbalfîm could breathe again as the heavy body was dragged off him and flung into the bushes. Strong hands helped him to his feet. As he looked up into the golden eyes of a massive uruk, Âmbalfîm embraced him in gratitude, mumbling his thanks. 

"I am Sharapul, called the Man-swiver, and you are my dog now! I was out hunting when I saw those louts creeping up on you through the trees. When I beheld your beautiful face and body, I knew then that I must have you for myself!"

Âmbalfîm kissed Sharapul's hands, licking them affectionately. Reaching down, Sharapul touched Âmbalfîm's unclad groin and possessively grasped his member. The young uruk smiled dreamily as he felt himself harden. Then Sharapul took a leather band studded with small iron spikes and locked it about his new catamite's neck. As he heard the key lock, Âmbalfîm burst into joyous tears. A hot stream of seed shot from his jerking member and splattered against Sharapul's thigh. 

"My lord, I am yours! It is an honor to belong to one so brave and strong! What sublime rapture to be chosen as your boy!" he gasped as he clung to his deliverer. 

They had been together ever since. Sharapul was his protector, always coming to his aid when the larger, fiercer orcs would threaten him. Though Âmbalfîm was devoted to him and had eyes for no other, Sharapul liked variety. Many times he left his boy alone and crying while he sampled other flesh, both male and female. Once after he had returned from a liaison with an exotic half-breed from Turkûrzgoi, Âmbalfîm had gone to him, and after kissing his hands, burst out into tears.

"My lord, are you going to these other boys because I no longer please you? I live only for your love! I beg of you to whip me, Master, and drive away my faults! Make this worthless wretch a delight to you once again!"

"Do not cling to me so much, boy! Your love can sometimes be suffocating! As long as you remain loyal to me in your heart, I do not object if you form attachments with friends your own age!" Sharapul had told him.

These words had cut Âmbalfîm to the core. From then on, he was a captive to despair. Gloom and melancholy fed off his tortured heart like worms devouring a corpse as they burrowed deeply into the putrefying body. Whenever Sharapul was with another boy or even a (O horror of horrors!) female, Âmbalfîm could not bear it and went off by himself to mope. Although several handsome young uruks had made strong overtures to him, he could never bear to allow anyone other than Sharapul to touch him. When he was not with his lover, Âmbalfîm spent all of his time obsessing about him and weeping great, bitter salty tears in his misery.

When Sharapul and Âmbalfîm had been assigned to leave the slavers' camp and escort the tracker Torû to search for the slaves, the youth had been ecstatic at the opportunity to go away with his lover. He had nothing to fear from the sour Torû, for he was quiet and kept to himself, and even if Sharapul had tried to seduce him, Âmbalfîm knew that Torû would refuse him.

Torû considered himself fortunate that he had never known any form of love, especially the kind shared by Âmbalfîm and Sharapul the Man-swiver. A doughty sort, he would never turn to another male when he was needy. When he was in a randy mood, he relieved his urges with his hand. If a fertile female were hot for him, he would satiate himself by plunging deep inside her until he had filled her with his seed. Never would he turn to another male; such things were far beneath him.

When the day had begun, Torû's humor was foul enough, for Sharapul and Âmbalfîm's lovemaking during the night had made it almost impossible to sleep. Their raucous sounds had cut through the peace of the night as Sharapul groaned and strained over Âmbalfîm's body, pounding and thrusting as the smaller orc squealed and moaned. They rolled and tumbled in their blankets, sweating and reeking of the scent of their lust, screaming out cries of passion as they brought each other to a tumultuous conclusion. While this "unnatural union," as Torû called it, was in full fury, Torû moved his bedroll as far away from the pair as he could get. 

Torû had never wanted the duty in the first place, and resented Captain Ubri for selecting him. But duty was duty and the pay was good, and so, keeping his displeasure to himself, he had followed the scent of the Rohirric girls through the ruins of Osgiliath. When he had the bad luck to lose their trail at the river, at first he considered that they might have drowned. Unwilling to give up, though, he had insisted that they keep on searching. Unable to pick up the scent, he and his two unwanted companions had roamed over a wide area for the past two days, searching to pick up the girls' trail.

Covering ground in the rapid lope for which the uruks were famous, they traveled to the foothills of the White Mountains, where they had camped the night of June 19th. Breaking camp at dawn, they had climbed one gentle hill after another. Then when the skies had darkened and the rain had fallen, they took shelter under a rock outcropping. When Sharapul snapped his fingers and led the beaming young uruk deeper into the overhang, Torû had been so disgusted that he stalked outside and away from them. He had spoken little to either of them since then, and now it was the day of the summer solstice.

Squatting down on his haunches and resting his back against the sturdy trunk of a mighty oak, Torû ate a section of malodorous meat and washed it down with a greedy swallow of draught. He cursed and muttered impatiently to himself as he waited for the two of them to return from their latest tryst in the bushes. "Damn," he groused. "They can't keep their hands off each other! What's taking them so damned long? You would think he'd gotten his prick stuck! If I were not encumbered by that motley pair, I could make much better time!" When they returned, Torû raised his head slightly and scowled.

"Did you miss us while we were gone, Torû? You could always join us if you wanted, you know." Sharapul winked suggestively as he and a giggling Âmbalfîm rejoined the tracker. "Don't have the balls for it, do you?"

"Sharapul, you old bugger, I'm careful where I put my prong, and ain't no one's going to get theirs in my arse," Torû growled. He rose to his feet, adjusted his quiver on his back, and shuffled down the slope.

Sharapul and his giggling catamite soon caught up with him. "Onto something, aren't you, Torû?"

"Maybe," he muttered sourly, "but I need to find out if my eyes agree with what my nose has been telling me. To do that, I must get a good look down into that valley below us. Over there where the trees thin out seems like a good place to get an unobstructed view." When the three had reached the indicated spot, they stood upon a ledge of rock high above the valley.

"They don't appear to be the ones for whom we are searching," Âmbalfîm mused in a puzzled tone. "There are two horses and three riders - an old man and two scrawny lads mounted double - and an ugly hound. None of them fits the descriptions which we have been given." 

"Hounds mean trouble," Sharapul scowled. "They can be as ferocious as wolves!"

"No trouble for our arrows," Torû boasted, smiling wickedly as he reached behind his shoulder and patted his bow.

"Doesn't matter if they're the ones we're looking for or not. They might know something. Even if they don't, they might have something worth stealing. We best go investigate," Sharapul smiled as he looked down the slope. "What say you, Âmbalfîm, my salacious little slut?"

Âmbalfîm looked up at him trustingly. "Wherever you lead me, my darling lord, I will follow!"


	39. Ambush in the Forest

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Much to their disappointment, Tarlanc awakened the sisters at dawn and insisted that they rise for the day's journey. Though the old man greeted them with a cheerful "good morning," the lack of sleep weighed heavily upon him. His dark gray eyes were bloodshot and seemed to have sunken even more into his skull. When he smiled, delicate skin as thin as parchment stretched over his angular cheekbones. He had the look of one who had seen many years and many sorrows, and upon this day it seemed that they all were written upon his face. The twins suspected that the old man was still feeling melancholy after telling the sorrowful tale of Tabahanza, and though he did not mention it, the recollection was weighing heavily upon him.

After tending to the morning's necessities and eating the usual meager breakfast fare, the two sleepy girls sat atop Mithril and waited for Tarlanc to mount Sparrow. Even though the gaunt old man appeared weary and worn, his tall, thin frame resembling a cadaver, when he took the reins and swung into the saddle, he was amazingly spry. "You might not know it, lasses, but in five days' time, we will be within the borders of Rohan!" he called out as he touched his heels to Sparrow's sides.

Using the Great West Road as their guide, they set a northwestwardly course through the forest, although they distanced themselves far from the main thoroughfare. Traveling too closely to the road would be perilous, but Tarlanc did not want to venture very deeply into the forest lest he risk confronting the Wild Men. All he knew of those people were the rumors which he had heard since childhood. These tales told of a fierce group of squat men who hid in the trees and shot poisoned darts at intruders. Some stories even told that these fearsome creatures would eat the bodies of living men and relish their screams of agony as they tore off great, bloody chunks of their flesh. Whether the stories were true or not, Tarlanc had no desire to discover their veracity.

The party of three had been riding for about an hour when they came to the mouth of a narrow defile surrounded on either side by low, wooded hills. In its middle there flowed a stream which had once been quite wide, but, because of the drought, had shrunk to but a fraction of its breadth and depth. Spilling out of the dale, the stream cut across the trail and continued on its course over the plain to the Anduin. Though the sun sparkled brightly upon the peaceful water and a gentle breeze sighed through the trees, the sides of the dell shaded away into a somber gray quietude. 

Gazing up at the great, white billowing clouds which rolled slowly over the blue skies, an expression of peace came over Tarlanc's face. "You know, lasses," he remarked, turning in the saddle to look back at them, "many times in my long life, I have wished that I could set down on parchment the scenes of great beauty which I have beheld before me. Unfortunately," he chuckled, "every time I ever tried to write a poem, it was so poor that I consigned it into the flames. Anything that wretched should never be imposed upon some victim's ears. Doggerel, lasses, nothing but doggerel!"

Both girls giggled at Tarlanc's criticism of his literary talents. "Oh, surely it was not that bad," Elfhild exclaimed, peering over her sister's shoulder to give the old man a sympathetic look. "You are only being humble!"

"If you had ever read any of my horrid verse, you would think to yourselves, 'Nothing could be worse!'" Chuckling to himself, he urged his horse down the slope into the quiet water. Haun bounded ahead of them across the course, and after gaining the far bank, shook himself fiercely, sending droplets of water flying in showers. Excitedly he put his nose to the ground, trailing the scent of some animal, a fox or a deer, perhaps, which had also come seeking the life-giving water that day.

Sparrow halted in mid-stream and dipped his mouth into the water. As Tarlanc urged him forward, the chestnut gelding trailed his muzzle through the cooling depths, sucking in great gulps of the refreshing elixir. Tossing silvery droplets skyward, he splashed across the brink and up the other side. Elffled had reined gray Mithril at the top of the southeastern bank, and the sisters watched Tarlanc's back as he rode up the slope. As the sun played over the water, a smile came over Elffled's face as she watched the peaceful scene. She felt a warmth in her heart, grateful to the old man who had grown to be a true and faithful friend to them when they had needed him the most. 

Suddenly, Haun abandoned the animal trail and lifted his head high, winding the air. The hackles bristling on his back, he growled out a warning grave and deadly. 

Twisting around in the saddle, Tarlanc raised his hand, signaling them to halt. "Lasses, hold!" he cried, his voice a tense order. "Mayhap there be a danger ahead!"

From the corner of her eye, Elffled saw sunlight glinting upon metal up the slope across the stream. There was the blurred streak of motion as a black feathered shaft hurtled down upon them, a herald of blood and death. Before she could ever ever cry out a warning, she heard the deadly hiss of the arrow. She let out a horrified shriek as she saw the missile of doom plunge into Sparrow's neck and bore its bloody trail through the flesh to emerge from the other side. Seeking gruesome prey, more arrows came streaking after the first, drinking blood and plunging into flesh.

Almost as though they were idle observers to some nightmare, the twins stared in spellbound horror as the chestnut reared high into the air, one anguished whinny after another ripping from his throat. The sisters screamed, the sound of their terrified shrieks blending with the cries of the horse in one dreadful cacophony. The pain maddened gelding beat at the sky with his forelegs, gouts of blood flying from his wounds like bizarre garlands of scarlet roses flung at a wedding. His eyes rolling back in his head with terror, he sent one frantic shriek after another as the second arrow caught him in the gut. Tarlanc's horrified eyes locked upon the feathered barb extending from the gelding's abdomen like a skewer. "Damn!" he muttered. Rearing high, Sparrow's body angled precariously backward until his balance faltered and he toppled over on his haunches.

Tarlanc's mind refused to accept what was happening. Age had dulled the acuteness of his reflexes, and he did not respond so quickly as he once had. Finally reacting, Tarlanc leapt from Sparrow's back before the dying horse toppled over and crushed him. The old man hit the ground heavily, groaning as he landed on his right shoulder. Sparrow, his legs thrashing aimlessly high over his head, lay upon his back and whinnied piteously as the blood gushed from his wounds.

Crawling on his hands and knees to avoid the flailing hooves, Tarlanc drew his dagger from his belt and struggled to his knees. Casting a look back at the sisters, he shouted, "Ride, lads! Ride for your lives! We are finished here!"

Before the sisters could respond, the next arrow had hit Mithril, ripping off most of her left ear. Elfhild and Elffled screamed as the bright red blood sprayed from the wound, gushing out like a crimson font. A poor shot, nonetheless the brutal barb terrified and enraged the mare, driving away all semblance of her good training. Her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide and rolling white, her only instinct was to escape.

Flinging her head and sending more blood spattering over the sisters, she took the bit between her teeth and clamped down on the metal. Elffled struggled to control her, but the mare ignored her and spun around. For a brief few moments, her right side was exposed to the archers on the slope. In those few seconds, a sharp-eyed archer unleashed another arrow, this one far more skillfully aimed. The feathered barb buried itself deeply in the mare's side, barely missing the back of Elfhild's calf. The wound broke loose a floodgate of pure agony in the valiant little mare, and she screamed out her rage and pain.

Terrified, the twins held onto the saddle while the mare plunged forward through the trees. Her strides lengthened, and the mare had gained a few yards when two more arrows followed in quick succession. One whistled harmlessly by her and the other caught her in the large muscle of a hind leg, severing the great artery. The mare's pace slowed to a trot as another barb struck her in the haunches. Her gait faltered to a stumbling walk as her breathing came harsh and heavy, her neck and sides lathered with sweat and streaked with blood. Though the archer did not know it, the next missile was wasted, for the mare was dying on her feet, the ruptured artery leaking blood as she staggered. This barb bore into her flesh and muscle right above her tailbone, and the mare stumbled and went down on her forelegs, pitching the girls over her head. 

With a roar of triumph, three monstrous shapes charged down the hill, screaming and baying like demons from the hordes of hell. Slowing down near the mouth of the ravine, one held back. He watched as his fellows sped by him, while he put an arrow to the string and drew it back to his cheek.

Though he was dazed and giving to his right side, Tarlanc had managed to draw his dagger and stumble to his feet. Haun stood protectively in front of him, deep roars rumbling from his throat.

"No, Haun, you damn fool!" Tarlanc cried, but it was too late.

His hackles bristling, his fangs barred, Haun gathered his muscles and lunged for the uruk in the lead. Before he could reach the brute and close his great jaws around his arm, an arrow hissed through the air and struck the mastiff in the back. Driving straight down and passing through a lung, the shaft pressed close to his spine, paralyzing him and sending his hindquarters crumpling under him. Bloody froth dripping from his mouth, the valiant mastiff struggled to drag his ruined hindquarters forward. Two more black feathered barbs mercifully ended his agonized struggles. With the memory of a defiant growl lingering in his throat, the great beast collapsed to the ground, his legs jerking spasmodically.

All of these nightmarish scenes transpired in only a few moments, brief and short-lived when recorded upon the marks of the hourglass. They passed in bitter quicksilver flashes across the consciousness. Though fleeting and transient as man accounts time, they would scourge their way deep in the valleys of the soul as phantasmagoria. Never would the sisters be free, for the ugly and rude aberrations would continually rear their serpentine heads in sharp, painful visions. There in the mind, the storehouse of all human emotion, they would linger in deep abscessing wounds, brooding and festering. At times, the tormented consciousness would push them under the depths, while at other times, it would summon them up on swirling waves of memory. There they would shock and terrify, constantly refreshing the psyche with scenes of bizarre horror... but they would not be forgotten.

Bruised, battered and scraped, the sisters struggled to pick themselves up from where they had been thrown. The body of the dead mare was before them, her eyes already glazing over in the stare of death. As she had galloped in terror, her life's blood spilling, she left a trail of crimson, which wove its way from where she had fallen back across the tormented ground to the stream. Mercifully, Mithril had taken them too far away from the slope for them to see the scene of horror which was playing out like some act in a gruesome drama.

The archer who had so recently butchered the brave dog and horses had taken a position a short distance up the slope. A faint smile upon his gruesome features, he stood with his bow ready, his eyes fixed on the tableau below him. "This has been so easy," he thought, grinning to himself. "The old man and boys just fell into our hands. Now if Sharapul and his boy ever get around to it, we'll have their swag and be out of here quicker than you can say, 'highway robbery.'" He chuckled at his own joke. It was a shame that those other two dolts were always too busy with each other's pricks to appreciate his humor.

Tarlanc had seen the bowman, and for a moment wondered why he did not strike him down. Then he realized that the three of them were in no haste to kill him, obviously keeping him alive long enough to have some sport with him. Taking a defensive position, Tarlanc drew his dagger and held it extended before him. He stood his ground and slowly circled as two of the uruks ringed around him, hooting and calling obscenities and making vile signs with their hands and fingers.

The smallest one, the one of delicate build who resembled more a man than the monster which he was, wiggled his hips suggestively and slowly danced closer until he was almost within the old man's reach. Fluttering his eyelashes as flirtatiously as any feminine coquette, the bizarrely attractive orc thrust his pelvis forward as he caressed his crotch. Enraged at this loathsome display, Tarlanc suddenly lunged forward, slashing out with his knife. With a little giggle, the dainty one nimbly avoided his thrust and pranced out of his reach. His eyes still riveted upon his strange attacker, Tarlanc was unprepared when the most powerfully built of the uruks lunged for him.

Grabbing him by the wrist, the orc snapped the old man's arm back, flinging the dagger from his grasp. The uruk's yellow eyes bore into Tarlanc's as the brute bared his long, yellow fangs, his carrion-tainted breath expelling itself in the old man's face. Holding him in a fierce grip, the monster laughed as he slowly crushed the bones of Tarlanc's wrist. The old miller screamed in agony as he felt his bones snapping as though they had been nothing more than a bundle of dry twigs. A vicious kick in the groin doubled Tarlanc over, and a powerful fist under his jaw sent him toppling to the ground.

Cocking his head to the side, a reflective look upon his face, the small, petite orc put his finger to the side of his mouth. "Why, Sharapul, I do believe you have ruined the sweet old fellow!"

"Âmbalfîm, the bastard is too old to need his ballocks anyway!" Sharapul laughed wickedly as he loomed over Tarlanc.

Torû left his post up the slope and walked down to where Sharapul and Âmbalfîm stood over Tarlanc. "Come on, fellows, you've had your fun! Let's go after those lads. I'm hoping we can sell them for slaves. Just leave the old man alone; he won't be in any condition to do anything for a while," he grumbled peevishly.

"You're right, Torû... as always," Sharapul gibed sarcastically. He was angered at what he took as a usurpation of his power as leader. Secretly afraid of Torû, who was a much better fighter, he was unwilling to engage in a quarrel with him. Instead, Sharapul turned blazing eyes to Âmbalfîm. "I have no time for this, pretty boy! You slit his throat and then search him! You can have what's in his pockets. We will come back later and search the horses' packs. Torû and I have to be after those youths before they get away!"

The demure orc's mouth gaped open as his eyebrows rose questioningly. "I don't like this business!" he chimed out in a high pitched, effete voice.

"What's wrong, Âmbalfîm?" Sharapul glared at him. "You have killed before! How's this one any different?"

"Maybe you don't understand, Sharapul." Âmbalfîm tossed his head to the side, sending his raven tresses flying out to cascade like a glistening river of ink against his back. The small beads which had been braided amidst his locks clashed against each other, tinkling delicately. A deep frown of disapproval upon his face, he thrust his fist upon his hip. "I never liked killing! I only killed in battle, and this is outright murder! I thought we were just going to rough them up a bit, have some fun with them, take their valuables, and then let them go!"

"Âmbalfîm, sometimes you think like a damn elf! Maybe you have reverted back to the old line. If you have, you little prick, you're a disgrace to the race of orcs!" Sharapul stormed, wondering if he had made a mistake to offer Âmbalfîm the money in the old man's pockets.

Groaning, Tarlanc raised his head. His jaw surely must be broken, for it was numb, and his teeth did not meet evenly. Dizzy, his head throbbing, he blinked his eyes in an attempt to chase away the dancing spots and blazing lightning bolts that streaked across his vision. The pain in his groin was unbearable, and though he tried not to cry aloud, he was certain that the groans which he heard from somewhere off in the distance were his own. Vaguely, through the haze of agony, he remembered Ahãma's prophesy of long ago. "Beware the woman who dwells in a man's body," she had told him, and at the time he could make little sense out of the prediction. Now, though, after seeing the slender, effete uruk, he understood with perfect clarity the dire meaning of the fortuneteller's warning.

"Kill the old bastard!" Sharapul bellowed angrily, his face turning red under his dark coloring. "I said kill him, and I meant kill him! Don't waste any more time!"

"No, Sharapul! You kill him yourself!" Âmbalfîm hissed. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Mates, I'm staying out of this, but I think you're making a big mistake." Torû scratched his jaw and walked away to stand by the creek bank and look in the direction that the twins' mare had taken them.

Bending down, Sharapul grabbed the old man's long white hair and jerked his head back. No recognition was written in Tarlanc's dark gray eyes as he looked up dully at the orc. The old miller barely comprehended what was about to happen. A merciful haze had descended over his mind. He smiled gently as the dagger sliced from left to right across his throat, severing his jugular and letting his crimson blood spew over his neck and chest.

As the dagger did its deadly work, the three uruks heard a long, piercing scream from across the stream. His eyes gleaming with the heat of his bloodlust, Sharapul's head jerked up at the sound. 

"Come on, lads! After them! They're getting away!"

Torû screamed out a wild battle cry as he and Âmbalfîm tore off at a lope. Jumping the stream in a single bound, they were up the bank and after the sisters like hounds on the trail of deer. Strong muscled and swift creatures, they soon swung into an easy stride which they could maintain over many miles and many hours.

After cleaning his dagger on a filthy rag, Sharapul stabbed the weapon back into the sheath at his belt. He looked down at his victim, who gazed up at him through the glassy-eyed stare of death. Ramming his fist under Tarlanc's jaw, the uruk pushed his head back and forth, laughing as the dead man's mouth flopped open and shut, the broken jaw bone wiggling in his hand. Running his finger through the gaping, bloody trough in his neck, the uruk snickered.

"Why so quiet, old man? I made you a pretty red mouth, a lot prettier than the other one you have! Not doing much talking now, are you?" He bent down and stared into his face. "The flies will be after you soon, and you'll end up a nest for maggots! You won't like that, will you?" Tiring of this amusement, he straightened his back and set to work rifling through Tarlanc's clothing. Breaking the string that held the old man's purse to his belt, Sharapul first tested the weight in his hand, and, pulling the pouch open, he grinned evilly when he saw the contents. "Quite a few coins in here, old man. Nice shiny silver and gold, just what I like to see!"

The uruk fumbled at the knapsack on his back and pushed the pouch inside. Impatiently, he gripped the neck of Tarlanc's tunic with both hands and ripped it down the middle. Dragging it off the body, he turned it inside out and searched the lining. His fingers quivered in delight when they detected a leather packet concealed within an inner pocket. Tearing it open, he found an object wrapped in linen. 

"What's this, old man?" Sharapul leaned close to Tarlanc's face. "It must be dear to your heart to keep it so well hidden. What do you value so highly? I'll see soon enough!" Unwrapping the object, he discovered the miniature of Galwen. "What!" he bellowed. "Some damned ugly bitch! Not even the frame has any value! You cheated me, you old bastard!" In a rage, Sharapul rose to his feet, tore the portrait into fragments, threw them to the ground, and twisted his boot heel on the pieces, grinding them into the dirt.

After he had finished searching the rest of Tarlanc's body, Sharapul unlaced his breeches, hauled out his huge ruddy member, and urinated in Tarlanc's face. He sprayed the stinking yellow liquid all over the old man's body, shook his prong a few times to flush out the last few drops, and then stuffed it back within his breeches. Baring his teeth in satisfaction, he threw back his head and howled in triumph.


End file.
